Skip to main content

Full text of "Joyful Heatherby"

See other formats


This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http: //books .google .com/I 

\ ». *^iwAs/sJsNA.'>/^ V nKNsaS-^^ 


















^■g NEVf XOTl^ 




► ./-v 



Joyful Heatherby 

By. Payne Erskine 

Author of "The Mountain Girl," Btc, 

With Four Bluttratum -;• 








ASTGH, lEN j;; A^4D 


R 1934 L 

Copyrigkt. igi3. 
By Little, Bkown, and Cokpamt. 

AU rights reserved 

» • • 


• • •- * 

• • • • 

• • • r 

• • 

• •."•• 

Published, January, 191 3 

Reprinted, January, 191 3 (twice) 

February, 1913 

Reprinted, March, 1913 

; June, 1913 

; Reprinted, July, 1913 

* • * 




SjgTiq[> ••••♦, 





. 28 


Heathesby's Boy . . . , 

» 41 


" la Nous SoMMES Hextseux " , 

. S6 


Mixed Emotions , . . , 

. 82 


Joytul's Ladye Faihk . 

► 98 


In the Basn Studio 

• "3 


Jack Stoddard's Wooing 

» 125 


Joyful's Secret 

. 143 


A Mysterious Assault • 

► 159 


CoNPLicriNG Sentiments 

• 179 


The End of an Idyll . 

. 191 

^ XIII. 


Mark Returns to the World 
A Touch of Worldly Wisdom 

, 208 

;t XV. 

Premonitions Fulfilled 

• 237 

»< XVI. 



. 252 

♦ xvii. 

After the Manner of the Woru 


» 264 


A Rebuff 

> 280 


Renewed Aspirations . 

► 295 


Joyful Finds a Protector . 

. 300 


A Modern Knight . . • < 

> 3" 


Mrs. Bing's Blunders . 

• 325 













Mrs. Renolds Discovers a Mystery • • 336 

A Chance Meeting 346 

Sunrise on a Hilltop 359 

Joytul's New Hoice 372 

Overtaxed 388 

An Ambitious Woman's Husband • • • 401 

Marie Vaile's Release 411 

Mrs. Renolds Solves the Mystery • • 433 

sxtrrender 436 



He kissed her, and they took their way in 

silence Frontispiece 


He was rewarded by another glimpse of her face . 17 

Jack was dose beside her. She could feel his 
breath upon her cheek 135 

Joj^ul was moved for the first time to active 

responsiveness 269 




" What skills it if a bag of stones or gold 

About thy neck do drown thee ? Raise thy head ; 
Take stars for money, — stars not to be told 
By any art, yet to be purchased. 
None is so wasteful as the scraping dame ; 
She loseth three for one, — her soul, rest, fame. 

Pitch thy behavior low, thy projects high ; 
So shalt thou humble and magnanimous be : 
Sink not in spirit ; who aimeth at the sky 
Shoots hi^er much than he that means a tree. 

A grain of g^ory mixed with humbleness 

Cures both a fever and lethargicness/' 

— Geokge Herbert. 

Rab£ and sweet are genuine spring days in our austere 
New England climate, days when the air breathes of ex* 
pectation, and glory to come is half revealed in the touches 
of brighter color gleaming through the blue grays of the 
budding woodlands. There are mortals who starve for 
nature and long with irresistible desire for the woods and 
fields*— for bird songs, and the sound of lapping water 
among the stones. Mark Thorn was one of these* 
Spring had come tardily and dealt her favors sparingly 
this year, and when he went out a bitter wind cut through 


Ihim, as bitter and keen as the disappointment which had 
tortured him ever since the last exhibit when his pictures 
had been skied and no one had paused before them or given 
them a second look, — as bitter and keen as the pain which 
cut to his very heart when Louise Parsons passed by him 
with the words, "Why don't you get to work and really do 
something, Mark ? " 

He had turned on her in ill-concealed rage covered with 
sarcasm which she chose to consider only a flagrant piece 
of ill temper. "If I had painted those pictures which are 
tucked out of sight in that dark comer, in Paris instead 
of here, they would have been himg where those daubs 
are that you are pretending to admire now, and you would 
be saying, 'Mark, how much you have accomplished !'" 

" Then why did n't you paint them in Paris ? " 

Mark threw out his hands in disgust and turned away, 
then turned back. "Can we never be loyal?" he asked. 
*' Are we always to hail from abroad or go without notice ? 
Are we never to have any art of our own? Louise, you 
ought to know, if you do not, that my pictures are better 
than these." 

"I know they are not bad, Mark, but then they don't 
seem to appeal to others, and there must be some reason. 
We can't set aside the judgment of critics and the public 
as worth nothing. I would rather praise your pictiures 
than any one's else ; you know that." 

"Yes. I know if all the world were praising mine, 
you would go down on your knees to them ; that is, if the 
world were praising them enough." 

Louise lifted her shoulders and her beautiful chin, and 
slipping her arm through her stepmother's, led her away. 


"Good-bye, Mark. When you are in better humor come 
and see me." 

Mark turned and sauntered off. 

"That 's always the way," continued Louise to her 
companion. "He resents the least suggestion. Mark 
never can imderstand." 

"Why will you and Mark always be disputing? It 
certainly isn't a pleasant thing for either of you, and 
when all is said, nothing seems to be accomplished." 

"What could be accomplished, pray, when he takes it so ?" 

"I mean you never tell him just what it is you object to. 
Now, what 's the matter with those pictures of his ? Are n't 
they as good as the ones you were raving over of that 

"He is a Russian, Kate dear." 

"Russian's, then. Aren't they? I like his drawing 
far better." 

" I see. You wish me to be more concrete, and I would, 
only we have n't time if we go to the Seraha lecture." 

"I can't see what you find in that fat Hindoo to go into 
raptures over. Really, Louise, do you know, yourself?" 

"I wish you could see, Mamma Kate, for your own sake. 
My life is so full of the joy of seeking. But I can't make 
you see. I must be content with my own happiness in this 
new light." 

"But you are so vague, dear. You don't once say what 
this new light is. That 's just the way you talk to Mark 
about his pictures." 

"You are always wanting to be concrete, when nothing 
in this world is, don't you know? The soul must reach 
out for itself and find its own path. Mark ought to do the 


same. Just now the rage is for everything foreign. Our 
land is so new and crude. If people want foreign things, 
why does n't he paint abroad ? " 

Louise Parsons' pladd way of accepting her own ideas, or 
those she chose to adopt for the time being, was infectious. 
She dragged her imresisting little stepmother away to the 
Seraha lecture without more ado, not even turning her 
serene face for another glance at the offending pictures 
which had been skied to make room for those of more suc- 
cessful artists. "You see, Mamma Kate," she said, draw- 
ing that little lady toward her with a caressing movement, 
"I perfectly adore Mark. We know he has talent, but I 
want to spur him to do something which will make the world 
see it, too. We can never be happy if he doesn't succeed. 
You know how it would be — he would never be satisfied 
with himself, and I — well — I should alwajrs fed it also. 
He must succeed." 

"Yes, dear, I suppose he must," Mrs. Parsons sighed. 
Being childless herself, her love for Mark was akin to a 
mother's devotion. Her heart overflowed toward her 
aster's son with tender craving and solicitude. She loved 
her stepdai^hter also, and tried to persuade herself that the 
beautiful child was all in all to her, but in a woman's heart 
there is always room for a son, with love and to spare. As 
time passed she had learned to yield, as an elder sister might, 
to the girl's caressing domination, even as one who abdicates 
gladly an arduous position. 

Mark strode from the gallery, smothering his anger, not 
turning to see if they took a second look at his imfortunate 
pictures. Had he not painted them for Louise? Every 
brush mark had been placed with thought of her, — his 


hours of toil had counted for him only as they would bring 
return in her eyes, — and what had he gained ? A shrug, 
a cool glance, and a cutting remark ; and, worse than all, 
the maddening thought that she, too, was only one of the 
crowd whom he was fighting, and would think as they 
thought, not as he thought. 

He went back to his dismantled studio and gazed indig- 
nantly about. All his long, eager winter's work, his very 
soul — as he thought then — laid bare to the public, and 
left to their careless, imcomprehending glances, or more 
cruel utter neglect. 

"Fools/' he muttered, moving about his cold, disordered 
room. "Fools ! Let them pay their price for crushing out 
every atom of American ambition. What can we do? 
What can I do ?" Biting his Ups with anger and chagrin, 
he jerked an old trunk, which bore the marks of many 
campaigns, from a comer where its disreputableness had 
been hidden by an Oriental fabric and began tossing into 
it a few of his belongings. "I'll get out of this. I'll go 
where the air, at least, is wholesome," he said. 

"Come and see me when you're in better humor." The 
words rang in his ears. "I'll be in better humor next fall, 
perhaps," he said grimly, "if not — I'll wait until I am, 
and she may wait too, or else — ,*' he stopped and laughed 
unpleasantly, and turning a canvas from the wall, stood 
looking down at it, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. 
Then the artist began to dominate the man, and the frown 
on his face turned into a serious look of contemplation. 
He knelt before it, scrutinizing every line, and touched it 
here and there to see if it was dry, whistling softly. If 
Louise had seen him, would she still have been cold ? Was 


it her face, or was it his idealized conception of her ? He 
was glad he had not sent it with the others to be slighted 
and forgotten. What would she have said if he had ? He 
turned it to the wall at last, and went on with his packing. 

An hour later he was seated in a local train, his color box 
and valise strapped together at his feet, speeding out of the 
dty. He had canceled several engagements and written 
his aimt he would not dine with her that evening. Whither 
he went he did not care, — anywhere to be away from 
people. The day had been cold, lowering, and raw. The 
air had the fishy smell of the sea, yet through it all, and 
through his misery, he heard the call of the spring. Nature 
would be more kind, more human than men and women. 
She would take him to her bosom and steep his soul in the 
wine of life. Perhaps, sometime, he would be able to work 
again seriously, but now he must rest, and dream, and 

When a man, starting out in the enthusiasm of youth, 
has toiled and hoped on into the earnestness of manhood, 
patiently, perseveringly seeking to maintain his ideals 
in spite of all that the world offers in exchange therefor, 
and finds at last he has brought up against a blank wall of 
indiflference, what is he to do but take the antidote for his 
suffering that natiure benignly gives — to lie awhile on her 
breast, bathe in her streams, listen to her bird songs and 
the voice of her woods, revivify himself with her pure breezes, 
and let his soul become once more enlightened by God's 
simlight streaming over all ? Mark Thorn, vaguely feeling 
this instinctive longing for the natural cure for his hurt, 
sought it out, even as a vine trails its length toward its 
natiural support, or a flower seeks the sun. 


As the train rumbled on, Mark leaned back in his seat, 
with his hat pulled over his eyes, and thought of the years 
he had spent in fitting himself to paint the pictures which 
had been lost sight of by the throng. Why had he done it ? 
What had urged him on, and held him to his early ideals ? 
He felt the satisfaction of a man who is conscious, in spite of 
failure, that he has been true to a lofty purpose, and not 
moved merely by a sordid ambition. He had chosen to be 
a creator, and a dreamer of dreams; what then, was the*- 
world at fault that it refused to worship at his feet ? Wasi 
that the guerdon for which he worked, after all his high' 
sentiments ? It was well, then, that he had failed to reach 
it. A filUp for the world ! If he coul J only make a living, 
that was all he asked of it ; and he would paint as he pleased, 
cling to his ideals, create for the love of his art, and be happy. 
Ah — but there was Louise ! Must he win the world to win 
her love? 

He moved restlessly in his seat, and scanned the land- 
scape absently as he whirled by. Now and then he caught 
a glimpse of the sea, and as the train sped northward, the 
hills grew higher, and the spring seemed more advanced 
in the sheltered hollows. Two countrymen in the seat 
behind him talked of their own and their neighbor's affairs, 
and he caught scraps of their conversation. 

" Willoughby Junction " 

" Yes, pretty good, I should think. Heatherby, he 's made 
extry good hauls this spring, 'nd Boston market 's always 

" Heatherby 's always lucky. He 's bom to it — presume 
to say 't he fished when he was a baby," 

"The' say he still keeps th' boat; well — he 'd ought to/* 


"Woodbury Center 's pickin' up a little, too. The' tell 
me the 's a new store there." 

"Yes, but 'twon't grow much. Nothin' to make it — 
no factories, not even on th' line of the road." 

"They might make something out o' their marshlands, 
if they 'd only put a little money into draining of 'em." 

The conductor passed, and Mark asked him for the nearest 
station to Woodbury Center. A place with no railroad to 
it, and no factories near it, and marshlands and woodlands 
and sea within reach, that was the place to which he wished 
to go. "Anywhere," he said to himself, "where civilization 
had not blundered into improvements." 

"Woodbury Center ? It's off the line of the road, but I 
guess you can get there if you try. It's not far from. 
Willoughby Junction." 

So Mark had his luggage put off at the Junction, and was 
left standing on the platform, the only mortal in sight. 
The clouds had lifted, and the sun shone warmly. He sat 
on his box and whistled, and whittled a pine stick, and 
waited. Presently a small boy, with answering whistle, 
came along trundling a wheelbarrow, and informed him that 
when people wanted to go to Woodbury Center, his "pa" 
took them over in his spring wagon, but that "pa" was away 
now taking a lady and her trunk to the next town. So Mark 
set out across country on foot, in the direction indicated by 
the boy, carrying his hand bag and easel, and leaving his 
heavier luggage in the care of the little humpbacked agent 
whom he found in the station. 

While Mark Thorn was pursuing his way toward Wood- 
bury Center, guided now and then by a passing fanner to 


a shorter cut through woodland or meadow, Mary Elizabeth 
Drew stood m the doorway of her andent, rambling home, 
speeding two departing guests with gentle words of courtesy. 
Her mother spoke also, from the inner room where she re- 
clined in an invalid's chair. 

" Don't hurry away, Mrs. Somers ; stay and have supper 
with us." 

''Yes, so do," said Mary Elizabeth. 

"Oh, my! We can't stay another minute — Ma — 
you know we're going to have company to tea. Good- 
bye," said Jane Somers, the tall, loose-jointed daughter, 
with a hurried flutter, gathering up the back of her skirt, 
which dragged heavily from her well drawn in waist. 

"Well, good-bye," said her small, wiry, bustling mother, 
and the two walked quickly away down the garden path, 
bordered by Elizabeth's spring posies. 

Mrs. Drew took a long breath, and closed her eyes, folding 
her hands in her lap with Quaker quietude. 

"They tired thee, mother." 

" No — Oh no. Are they gone ? " 

"They are just unt3ring the horse." 

"Thee must go out in the air, daughter. Thy voice 
soimds weary. Thee needs the air." 

"Yes, mother, after a minute. Shall Katy bring thee a 
cup of tea?" 

"No — I will sleep a KtUe." 

Mary Elizabeth stood for a moment in the doorway, 
watching the carriage top sway and dip, as it slowly sank 
from sight in the descent to the village; then she moved 
down the flower-bordered path like a queen, while bright 


tulips nodded and toudied the hem of her gown as she 
passed. She stooped and lifted a white one the wind had 
broken, shook it a little to remove the sand from its piire 
cup, and propped it up with a forked twig, and then stood 
looking down at it with a troubled expression on her face. 
On either side of the path tall white lilacs shook their snowy 
tassels above her head. 

"We are hypocrites, the best of us," she said, at last. 
"We smile and say things we don't mean. Her voice 
sounded like a wasp buzzing. Why should she talk to me 
of Joyful Heatherby and Nathanael?" A wave of color 
swept over her white throat, deepening as it rose to the halo 
of red gold about her forehead. She pulled a handful of 
the brittle lilac leaves and crushed them in her fingers, 
scattering them over the path as she walked on. Then she 
stood leaning on the little green gate, looking up and down 
the quiet coimtry road. Not far away a red cow stood 
sleepily, chewing her cud, and three tall poplars, lank and 
still, cast slender shadows across the way. In the distance 
a small figure, laden with a basket and an armful of pink 
crab-apple blossoms, emerged from the strip of woodland, 
and climbing a low stone wall, came toward her. The child's 
slight form leaned and swayed with the weight of the basket, 
and her straight gown clung to her lithe limbs as she hurried 
on. As Elizabeth watched her, the look of anxiety in her 
eyes deepened. "What is she doing out so late, and her 
grandmother ill?" she thought. "I can't understand why 
Mrs. Somers thought it necessary to tell me, or what she 
thought I had to do with it. Nathanael may choose where 
he pleases — I love the child myself, why should n't he ? " 
Then she swung the gate open and walked down the path. 


"Joyful Heatherby, where have you been? Let me take 
that great basket." 

"No — no. It 's not heavy. Stoop down so I may kiss 
you, my arms are so full." 

''What have your arms being full to do with kissing me, 
you dear?" 

"I would hug you with them, of course. You haven't 
been over for so long — grandmother said Mrs. Drew must 
be having a spell, that you did n't come." 

"No, but I would have come surely, if I had known your 
grandmother was ill." 

"She hasn't been sick — what made you think so?" 

Again the shade passed over Elizabeth's face. Her manner 
with the child was that of an older sister. " Mrs. Somers told 
me. I wondered at your leaving her alone in this way." 

Joyful laughed, and then suddenly grew grave. "I think 
Mrs. Somers is a very fimny woman. When anything 
happens you would rather she should not know, she always 
seems to come round — and — then she seems to know, 
even if you put her oflf . I told her — a week ago it was — 
grandmother had a headache. Grandfather was out with 
his boat, and you know how grandmother is when he's 
gone too long — well, Mrs. Somers had to come aroimd 
asking that very day." The child was Uke a sad spring fay 
who had found a trouble in its little life, as she stood there 
with her arms full of blossoms, gazing up into Elizabeth's 
face with large, sorrowful eyes. "Would you be afraid that 
way every time he goes? He comes back all right. He 
always does, but she sits in her room and makes it dark, 
and moans and moans, and rocks back and forth, and never 
eats anything until he comes to her." 


^'No, I would n't. But don't think about it, dear. You 
can't help it." 

'^ Sometimes I wish he would sell the old boat, but then, 
poor grandfather, he would die if he could n't go on the sea 
once in a while ; and anjrway, we need the money." 

Elizabeth looked at the girl with eyes grown luminously 
soft and loving. **Yes, dear, I know," she said gently. 

The caressing look brought its quick response. "You 're 
my 'Ladye Faire,' and I love you, I love you," Joyful cried. 
Then she threw her flowers on the ground and knelt beside 
them, bending over the basket. "Look in here, look. 1 
have fern, and Jacks, and bluebells, and cress — grand- 
mother loves it — and these yellow flowers — they hang 
their heads as if they were afraid to look up — and this vine 
— they all grow in deep, deep shade under a great rock 
over by Blue Marsh Creek. They are for my wild bed in 
the comer by the porch, where the sun never shines. I can 
dig there all I wish — grandmother won't care, and I can 
have it look like spring all the time." 

"I'm afraid they won't do well there, child. Everything 
needs a little sun, you know." 

"Oh, well, I can try," said Joyful, brightly. Then, 
straightening herself, she looked again into Elizabeth's 
eyes. * ' Why do you always call me child ? I was seventeen 
last week, and grandmother says I am a woman now, and 
must 'put away childish things.'" 

"I was thinking something of that kind as you came up,'* 
said Elizabeth, looking away where the sky blazed with gold. 

The girl's face flushed. "I 'm almost as tall as you are. 
My chin comes up to your shoulder." 

"Yes, Joy, but do you think you ought to go wandering 



away oflf like this, alone ? To Blue Marsh Creek ? Why, 
that 's four miles." 

"I know, but — grandmother sent me out. She said I 
looked peaked. Of course she did n't know I was going so 
far — neither did I." 

"I only meant for your own sake, dear. Let me take this 
heavy basket, and you come in and rest. Then, after I Ve 
looked after mother, I '11 go part way with you. It will be 
too late for you to go alone." 

"No — no, Ladye Faire. I 'm not tired. I met up with 
Nathanael a long piece back — he was in his father's field 
that joins the Thorntons ; he came across to give me a mes- 
sage for grandfather, and carried it all the way to your piece 
of woodland. I can't. It 's so late now, grandmother will 

They had reached the gate, and Elizabeth, turning 
quickly, opened it. "Good night, then," she said. "Tell 
Mrs. Heatherby I '11 be over in a day or two. Good night." 

"(jood night, Ladye Faire," called the little maid, hurry- 
ing away. The great basket dangled against her, and her 
gown, torn in one or two places, swung to and fro, as she 
walked. Her sunbonnet himg by the strings from her neck, 
and her plentiful brown hair was knotted high on the crown, 
leaving only a stray lock or two to be blown back by the 
breeze. Her dress touched the hepaticas and violets grow- 
ing in the crevices of the stone wall, and set them nodding 
and gossiping together as she passed. 

It was a mile from Mrs. Drew's house to the little inlet 
of the ocean where Joyful lived. All the distance was 
covered by primeval forest growth, undevastated by the 
hand of man since first it came into the possession of the 


Drew family, in the early settlement of the comitrj^ except 
where a wagon way had been cut through to what was 
called Heatherby's Point, which was in reality no point at 
all, only a sheltered cove, where the tides rolled gently up 
the sand toward the green woods, and back again, day after 
day, and where the waves never were high, even in the 
roughest weather. 

This patch of forest, with its dense shadows and many 
logs, its one purling stream, which she could leap across, 
its bright sunny spots, and low hills sloping toward the brook,, 
was as dear to her as the little yellow cottage at the end, 
with its few acres of cleared land, which was her home. She 
knew where the first trailing arbutus was to be f oxmd in the 
spring, where the chestnuts lay thickest in the fall, where 
the flying squirrels had their nests, and the owls their holes 
— where they sat and made their doleful cries with the 
whippoorwills in the soft summer evenings. She would 
have risen at midnight and walked among those trees with 
as little fear as she would have had in crossing her grand- 
mother's kitchen. 

The Sim had dropped below the edge of the horizon when 
she turned from the main road into the lane through the 
woods, lightly treading the soft grass. Suddenly a pleasant 
voice arrested her hurried steps. 

"Will you kindly tell me how far I am from Woodbury 

Glancing quickly in the direction from which the voice 
came, her eyes met those of a stranger, who stood regarding 
her intently, as he had been for some moments, ujiknown 
to her. 

"It's about two miles, I think," she replied, and would 


have moved on, when he spoke again, a little wearily, glancing 
at some traps by his side — a gun, a contrivance combining 
camp stool, imibrella, and easel in one slightly cumbrous 
affair, and a small valise and color box strapped together. 

"I beg pardon for detaining you, but I fear I Ve lost my 
bearings. Which way must I go — the shortest way — 
to reach the village ? " He gathered up his belongings as 
he spoke, and crossed the wagon track toward her. 

She put her basket down, and pointing with her shapdy 
little simbumed hand, said simply, "Turn to the right 
when you reach the main road ; " then, noting his evident 
weariness, added, "You'll have quite a hill to dimb, but 
only for a short distance — then it 's downhill all the way." 

"Thank you, thank you." He made no move to pass on, 
but placed his traps beside her basket. "I have a load to 
carry also, only mine is not beautiful as yours." He threw 
his hat, which he had not replaced since he first saw her, 
on the ground, and seating himself at the foot of a great 
chestnut, began mopping his brow with his handkerchief. 
"I think if I Ve a hill to climb I '11 rest here a little first," he 

Joyful, with a reserved half smile, took up her basket 
and walked on, wondering somewhat concerning him, but 
simply imconscious of the intent gaze which followed her. 

He leaned back against the rough tree, whistling softly 
to himself, as he watched, with half-closed eyes, the little 
figure growing smaller in the distance. Suddenly his face 
lighted, and springing to his feet, as if weariness were un- 
known to him, he boimded after her with all the energy of 
youth and enthusiasm. 

"Would it be asking too much — ?" She started, and 


looked up, as if he had akeady passed from her thoughts. 
*^ I beg pardon again, but one sees so few whom one can ask," 
and he looked ruefully up and down the quiet lane, as if 
he had expected it to be thronged with the moving crowd 
to which he was accustomed. ''I thought possibly you 
might know of some one who could take me in for a few days. 
I don't care to go even to Woodbury, if I can stop outside. 
I wish to make a few sketches about the country." 

He bent, and mechanically took hold of the handle of her 
basket. She dic^not yield it to him, but he bore the greater 
part of its weight as he suited his step to hers. 

"Indeed, you're welcome to ask me, but I don't know 
of any one; there are no houses nearer than the village after 
you pass the one on the hill, — that 's where Mrs. Drew 
Hves. She 's an invalid, and I never knew them to take any 
one. Mrs. Somers in the village takes boarders from the 
dty every summer, but — " she looked up, and again their 
eyes met. She was thinking perhaps she ought to offer 
him the hospitality of her grandfather's house, but what 
would her grandmother say if she brought a guest in, un- 
announced, after the supper things were all cleared away ? 
She wavered, and glanced up again, and the flush on her 
cheeks took a deeper hue. " I don't know what — perhaps 
grandmother might — " 

'Ah, if she would — !" but with quick intuition he 
guessed at her embarrassment, and hastened to relieve it. 

"No, no, I wouldn't intrude for a n[ioment. I only 
thought you might possibly direct me to some one who 's 
in the habit of taking in poor stragglers. I 've carried those 
traps as far as I care to, for one day, but I '11 take them up 
and plod on to Woodbury." 

k. J 






>«* :^ 


,, .^''-^^^f^r^ 


^hSMBB^Bl - - J 

H« wftB rewarded by another glimpse of lier face. Page 17. 

I -V 




"Oh," she cried, glad to compromise with herself, "you 
can leave them at grandfather's. It's only a little way 
farther. I 'U wait here till you fetch them." 

"I'll be delighted." He hastened back for them, but 
when he returned, foimd to his chagrin, that her face was 
totally ecUpsed. A little womanly feeling of reserve had 
caused her to draw the great simbonnet over her head. 
He was vexed as he looked down from his greater height 
on the slight, swaying figure beside him. She moved on 
with long, easy steps, keeping pace with him so naturally 
that he scarcely altered his gait for her. Then, noticing 
the evident weight of the basket, and the slendemess of 
the hand that climg to it, he cleverly shifted his easel, 
placing it under the arm that carried his valise, and again 
relieved her of over half the burden. He was rewarded by 
another glimpse of her face, and a smile, that his man's 
heart answered with a quicker beat. 

"You have your hands full without this," she said, mak- 
ing a movement of resistance to which he paid no heed, but 
retained his grasp, as a man will, and strode on, thinking 
of what use a study of her head might be. 

"We can't find such models in town — might as well 
study flowers from a milliner's window. She carries herself 
like a princess. I must say something — she won't make 
advances. Wonder how old she is ? I 'd give a dollar to 
pull off that ugly bonnet." 

But no. The full crown had slipped over her high knot 
of hair, and the stiff pasteboard front, drooping forward, 
hid her face, neck, and even her shoulders. So they walked 
on in silence, while he strove to analyze the impression her 
beauty had made on him. "It might be her eyes, or hei 


color, but they are not all. No, it 's her completeness. She 
is unique and perfect in this torn gown, with her arms full 
of crab-apple blossoms. I '11 paint her like this, and call 
the picture * Sylvia,' or something — but I have n't a doubt 
her name is Faith, or Patience, or Prudence. Well, they 're 
not bad — but — " 

There's grandfather's now. You see it wasn't far." 
Indeed, no." Roused from his reverie, Mark noticed 
a story-and-a-half house, set with its side toward the road, 
surrounded by a tangle of shrubbery. A tall locust, tardy 
in its foliage, and a giant silver-leaf poplar, with great 
twisted branches, made the house seem even smaller than 
it was. He walked more slowly, dismayed to find their 
destination so near, and no steps taken to insure a further 
acquaintance. Unused either to embarrassment or fatigue, 
Mark was now feeling a measure of both. Taken out of 
his own environment, and placed in hers, he felt himself 
in a sense an intruder. 

"I ought to tell you my name," he began hurriedly. "It 
is Thorn — Mark Thorn. It 's very good of you to ask me 
to bring my things here. They 're not easily carried a long 

"My name is Joyful," she said, with simple directness, 
"Joyful Antoinette Heatherby. Grandmother will be 
glad to take care of these for you." 

He gave her a searching look as she spoke her name, as 
though he half suspected her of reading his thoughts, but 
the sheltering sunbonnet screened her well: only, as he 
turned to open the gate, he caught a glimpse of a demure 
mouth, and delicately roimded chin, and a cheek flushed 
with exercise. A plump old lady, in lilac-colored gown 


and round linen collar^ stood in the doorway, eying them 
sharply as they walked up the path together. 

^'This is Mr. Thorn, grandmother. I asked him to bring 
his things here, instead of carrying them all the way to 
Woodbury to-night." 

Joyful went up the steps a little wearily, untying her 
bonnet as she spoke. She pulled it carelessly off, and the 
knot of brown hair was loosened, and fell in heavy waves, 
swinging far below her waist. She gave her head a toss, 
as if its freedom were a relief, and passed quickly in, leaving 
Mark to make his own explanation of their chaQce meeting. 
As he talked with Mrs. Heatherby without, satisfying her 
pardonable curiosity, he caught glimpses of the girl within, 
as she coiled her hair, standing before a little mirror he 
could not see. She disappeared into a low siunmer kitchen, 
and returned, bearing in her hands a large blue pitcher 
dripping with water. He watched the deft movements of 
her wrists as she wiped it and placed it on an old-fashioned 
table standing with its leaves down, against the wall, and 
covered with a gray linen cloth. She thrust the branches 
of pink bloom deep into the pitcher, and then walked back- 
ward, with her head on one side, regarding them. "She 
is imconsdously artistic," he said to himself. Again she 
disappeared into the kitchen, from whence came presently 
the light, clinking soimd of dishes. 

Mark was seized with a wild desire to remain, but began 
slowly to unstrap his color box from his valise. "I hope 
these things will not be in your way — " he said, "they 
certainly were in mine." Taking up his hat he straightened 
his somewhat angular figure to its full height, and looked 
away over the bay, quivering in the glow of evening light, 


and then at the woods growing somber in the gathering 
dusk. ''This is all very beautiful/' he said. 

He was hoping Jojrful would return, that he might bid 
her good night, while Mrs. Heatherby was revolving in her 
mind the propriety of inviting him to stop until morning. 
Cautious and thrifty she was, yet hospitable withal, and 
something in his manner had already won her. '' I suppose 
he 's used to having things just so," she thought. "City 
bred folks mostly are, 'nd I don't know 's I better, he being 
a perfect stranger, so, but then 't would n't be anything 
more 'n doing 's I 'd be done by." 

He turned with a sudden movement. "Good evening, 
and many thanks to you," he said. 

"I was just thinking if we only had things anyway 's 
you 're most likely accustomed to, I 'd ask you to stop over, 
long 's you 're looking a Uttle fagged, 'nd it 's a good piece on 
to Woodbury, 'nd more 'n half the way uphill; but we 
live very plainly, 'nd have things plain, 'nd you 'd likely 
not be comfortable, long 's you 're used to having things just 

"I'm used to having things any way I can get them, and 
thankful enough to have things at all," he said, with a laugh. 
"But I should be sorry to put you to trouble, if — " he was 
going to ask if he might pay for his lodging, but knowing 
the pride of many a New England housekeeper would rise 
affronted at such a reception of proffered hospitality, he 
added, "if you will allow me to take things just as you have 
them, I will accept your kindness gladly — but — I may 
be a beggarly tramp, you know." 

She laughed a wholesome, hearty laugh. "There 's a 
long step between a gentleman 'nd a tramp, 'nd I 've told 


them apart before now, so 'f you 're not afraid of being 
taken for one, we 'U risk it. Now you walk right in, *nd 
take a seat. Heatherby, he 's milkin', but it 's time he was 
through. He 'II be in in a minute, 'nd take those things 
of yours." 

They entered a large, low-ceiled room, and she moved 
forward an old-fashioned rocker, with patchwork-covered 
cushion. Mark leaned his head against its broad, flaring 
back with a delicious sense of rest, glad that he was in his 
own land, and not in some places where his nomadic life 
had taken him ; and this satisfaction increased when Jojrf ul 
entered, bringing a plate of little scalloped cakes and a glass 
of milk. 

"I thought you might like this before you go," she said. 

"He's not going. I asked him to stay overnight," said 
her grandmother, bustling about and lighting candles, with a 
step light and quick for one so heavy. " You put up the leaf, 
Joy, 'nd I '11 make tea. I wonder what 's keepin' father ? " 

"No, no. You mustn't make tea, Mrs. Heatherby, 
indeed you must not. This is all I wish," he said, taking the 
plate from Joyful's hands. "This milk is a treat to me. 
You were very kind to think of bringing it," he added, 
turning to Joyful. 

" Oh, no. We always have cakes and milk, and walking 
makes one hungry." She raised the leaf of the table, and 
shook out a clean, white cloth to lay on it. 

"I 'd about given you up, Joy," said the old lady, moving 
briskly about, now in and now out of the siunmer kitchen. 
"When I saw the sim goin' down I says to father 't I guessed 
we 'd better have supper, for more 'n likely you were stop- 
ping over to Widow Drew's, long 's you did n't come. 


"Oh, my plants ! " The chfld darted out like a bird and 
returned with her hands full of green stuff, "See, grand- 
mother, the stream bed was full of cress. And these ferns 
and thmgs ! I Ve been over to Blue Marsh Creek and got 
all these to fill the bare place by the porch/' 

"Why, child alive !" exclaimed Mrs. Heatherby, standing 
still in astonishment, with a plate of bread in one hand, and 
a generous brown teapot in the other. "You don't mean to 
tell me 't you Ve been all the way to Blue Marsh 'nd back 
this blessed afternoon, luggin' that great basket. Go right 
'nd sit down." 

Jojrful laughed merrily. "I'm going to, grandmother, 
I 'm so himgry," and she disappeared in the kitchen. 

"There's no telling what that child 'U do next." Her 
grandmother poured out a cup of tea. She had arranged 
a tempting little limch, in spite of Thorn's remonstrance. 
"Now, you draw right up 'nd help yourself. 'Tain't 
much, but if you 've been trampin' through the woods 'nd 
standing roimd drawing pictiures, a cup o' tea '11 be better 'n 

Mark Thorn was feeling the reaction from a day of activity 
to which he had been long imused, and the fragrance of the 
tea was more grateful to him than the odors of roses and 
violets. He was touched by her simple kindness. "I 
don't know how to thank you, Mrs. Heatherby," he said, 
drawing up his chair; "your bread and butter are fit for 
a king, and no one but my mother ever made me such a cup 
of tea as this." 

"Well, that's sayin' a good deal for the tea. I know 
what bo3^ mostly think of things their mothers make," 
she replied, beaming with pleasure. Then she left him to 


the enjoyment of his meal, and joined Joyful in the kitchen. 
He could not help hearing the most of their conversation. 

'' Why, I Ve been farther than that a great many times, 
grandmother, and besides, I met up with Nathanael, and 
he carried it over half way for me, and, grandmother, he says 
Jack 's written at last, and is coming home. He may be 
here any day.'* 

"Well, you need n't be so tickled over that. Jack 's very 
Uttle account accordin' to my way of thinkin'. Any boy 't 
would run away from his study 'nd good chances 't his 
brother worked hard to give him, 'nd keep his folks in hot 
water for months 'nd never send any word, nor ask forgive- 
ness, nor show any contrition of spirit, nor — " 

" But, grandmother, — he went — I know why, and I 'U 
tell you. He did n't want to be sent to college atNathanael's 
e]q)ense, and his father was set on his going, and he always 
has put Jack first, and Nathanael likes study, and Jack 
does n't, and they had words about it, and Mr. Stoddard 
got so angry, and told Jack he was ungrateful and lazy, and 
so Jack said why did n't he send Nathanael, and his father 
said he knew well enough they could n't send both, and then 
Jack spoke up and said he would n't stand inNathanael's way 
any longer, so he went oflF, and I think it was noble in him." 

"Hump ! Guess if he 'd cared to go himself he would n't 
'a' been so dreadful noble. How 'd you come to know so 
much 'nd all about it ? " 

"Nathanael told me a little to-day, and Jack told me part 
before he left." 

"Humph ! Now eat yoiu: supper, child. Did you see 
Jack before he went, then ? " These questions were put in 
rather a sharp tone, and Joyfiil's low replies were lost. 


''Ah ! So there is a Jack," thought Mark. ''And who 
might Nathanael be? And a little idyllic shepherd and 
shepherdess affair going on, and the course of true love not 
running smoothly, as usual." There was silence for a while, 
and the only sound was the rattling of milk pans. Then 
a heavy step and a hearty voice broke the stillness. 

"Why, bless me, Joy! Back, are you? We thought 
you were stoppin' over to Widow Drew's." 

"No, grand-daddy, I was afraid you'd worry." 

"Well, if you had n't come 'long pretty soon, ye 'd 'a' seen 
me a hmnpin' after ye, that 's certain." 

" She 's been over to Blue Marsh 'nd back, trampin' the 
coimtry 'nd tearin' her clo'es — but there, never mind, Joy. 
I guess it's all right, 'nd does you good; more'n likely it 
keeps you from bein' weakly like other girls." Then 
followed a low explanation about himself, which Mark did 
not hear, and a moment later the kitchen door swung open, 
and a tall old man, heavy browed, but kindly in expression, 
stood looking down on him. 

"Keep ye'r seat, keep ye'r seat," he said, as Mark rose. 
" Well, well. They tell me ye 're stranded, so to speak." 

"Why, not exactly stranded — I've been on a bit of a 
cruise, and have just cast anchor here for the night, and to 
take in supplies." Mark glanced toward the table from 
which he had risen. 

" You just sit still 'nd keep on loadin' up. You 've struck 
the right place for that Marthy knows what's what 
Marthy, where are those things I 'm to bear aloft?" 

"They're on the porch yet. Now, Mr. Thorn, you sit 
still 'nd rest — or perhaps you 'd rather go to your room." 

Joyful had just passed out, and was seated on the upper 


step of the little piazza, her hands clasped about one knee, 
and her head thrown back against the railing, listening to 
the whippoorwills, and watching the wheeling swallows 

" It 's too charming to go into any room such an evening 
as this. If I shall not be intruding, may I sit here with you 
a while ? Oh, leave those things, Mr. Heatherby. I '11 take 
them up later. Draw your chair out here, and we 11 chat 
a while, if you don't mind. Mrs. Heatherby, let me take 
that. Where shall I put it — here ? " He placed the great 
rocker she brought out near Jojrful. " No, no. You take 
it. I '11 sit here with you, if I may. Miss Heatherby." 

He sat on the opposite end of the step, and Jojrful opened 
her large eyes and looked into his with grave dignity. She 
had been called Miss Heatherby for the first time in her life. 
Then she smiled assent to his question, and looked away 
into the gathering shadows, but did not speak. Again 
Mark's readiness of speech left him, and he fell to wonder- 
ing about this flower of the wilderness. 

Mrs. Heatherby, in the rocker, swayed quietly to and fro. 
"I guess I won't light up indoors 'f we 're goin' to sit here; 
it only draws millers," she said. Her goodman had taken 
the light and disappeared with it in the kitchen. They sat 
silent then, while the dark woods grew darker, and the stars 
twinkled out one by one, and the swallows circled above 
them, and the whippoorwills insisted on Will's being 
whipped, and the sound of the surf was heard away over 
beyond the point that separated their little bay from the 
great restless ocean. It was a moment of restful peace in 
Mark's life that he never afterward forgot. Presently the 
grandfather joined them, coming around the house from 


the rear, with his pipe in his hand. He tossed something 
into the little maid's lap. She took it up and held it to her 
face. It was a tuft of purple, lilac-like bloom. 

"What 're ye all keepin' so still about?" he said. 

Joyful smelled her lilacs, but said nothing. He seated 
himself at her feet, and she ran her fingers through his thin, 
silvery locks. There seemed to be a tacit imderstanding 
between them. 

"I opine you 're a pretty tired little girl to-night," he said. 

"I guess we're all ready to rest a spell," said Mrs. 

"We're listening, grand-daddy. I love to listen in the 
evenings, and smell the lilacs." 

"So do I. The time of the lilacs is the sweetest time of 
the year," said Mark. 

"If you like them, too, you may have half of mine." She 
broke her spray and handed him a part. Again she looked 
frankly in his face. In the dusk he felt, rather than saw 
the gaze, and it pleased him. " She has the good sense and 
openness of innocence," he thought. In after years the 
odor of lilacs always brought to him the feeling of that 
twilight, and the girl with her hand on her grandfather's 
hair, the swaying rocker, the darkening woods, the far-oflf 
sea, and the watching stars overhead. 

The old man led Mark into conversation, and they chatted 
long, while Joyful listened and dreamed; and that night 
when she laid her head on her pillow, she thought how she 
had been called "Miss Heatherby," and that now indeed 
she was become a woman, and must "put away childish 

Then her thoughts wandered to the talk of the stranger 


"with her grandfather, of the lands where he had been; 
and the world seemed to have grown suddenly larger to her 
since she had said good-bye to Elizabeth, and turned into 
the wagon way through the woods. To be sure, she had 
talked with Elizabeth and her mother of the cities where 
they had been, and she had read books, and many of them — 
for there was a whole closet full of them in the upper hall, 
which had belonged to her mother's father — but with all 
this, the world outside the village and their own little cove 
had always seemed to her a sort of dream world, vague and 
far away. To-night it had suddenly become very real. 

This stranger had come to them from out of it all — from 
somewhere — from almost everywhere, it seemed, bringing 
with him the atmosphere of some other environment. He 
was not like Nathanael, he was not like Jack. He was 
absolutely different, in many subtle, undefinable ways, — 
she scarcely imderstood wherein they all lay. Could Mark 
have looked into the girl's mind he would not have wondered 
at the grave, searching gaze that met his own at intervals, 
as if looking into his very soul. 

She was to him a "rara avis," to be examined, classified, 
labeled, and placed among his character studies. To her 
he was a new creature, come from a world heretofore peopled 
with dream folk. With childlike simplicity she took note 
of all his ways, the tones of his voice, its every inflection, 
and all his small, unconscious courtesies. With unerring 
instinct he was being weighed in the balance, unknown to 



" She heard with patience all unto the end ; 
And strove to master sorrowfull assay, 
Which greater grew, the more she did oontead, 
And almost rent her tender heart in tway ; 
And love fresh coles unto her fire did lay : 
For greater love the greater is the loss. 
Was never lady loved dearer day 
Then she did love the Knight of the Redcrosse ; 
For whose dear sake so many troubles did her toss." 

— The Faerie Queene. 

Elizabeth loved ber flowers. Those who knew her well, 
always knew when they might find her in her garden. This 
morning she stooped over a bed of forget-me-nots in a damp 
comer near the garden wall, where lilies of the valley grew 
thickly among the tender blue flowers. A huge spruce 
tree, with spreading branches, kept the spot always shaded, 
and some hidden spring kept it alwa}^ damp. Close to 
the wall, delicate ferns unrolled themselves and flourished 
in the rich leaf mold Elizabeth had placed there for their 
own particular pleasure. 

It was still early. The sim had but just removed his 
cloud cap, and was yawning over the sea, taking his first 
peep at New England, and winking at the thrifty people 
already setting out on their day's labor. Elizabeth held 
a small trowel in her hand, with which she prodded among 



the roots. Presently she straightened herself, lifting a long 
trailing piece of duckweed, and tossed it out on the walk 
behind her with an emphatic *'There!" Looking up she 
saw a pleasant pair of blue eyes, and a smiling face above 
the wall. 

" Why, Nathanael ! I had no idea any one would be along 
at this hour," she cried, half reproachfully, glancing down 
at her tucked-up skirts, and putting back a wisp of radiant 
hair with her wrist, which her fingers were too covered with 
soil to touch. 

"No ? Have n't I as much right to be here at this hour 
as you ? That 's a great good morning." He laughed, and 
then they both laughed. He placed his hands on the top 
of the wall, and leaped to a seat on its broad surface. 

"I suppose you have, as long as you stay on the other side 
of the wall." She felt a flush mounting to her face, as it 
had the evening before, when she bent over her tulips, and 
stooping, she dug her trowel deep among the plants. 

"You '11 uproot all those, if you dig among them in that 
way ; now look what you Ve done." She pulled up a spray 
covered with tiny blue blossoms. "Don't throw it away — 
give it to me." She tossed it across the intervening space, 
and he began arranging the flowers in a cluster. " Give me 
a few of those lilies of the valley to go with them," he 
begged, and she did so. "Now, that's something like." 
He surveyed his bouquet critically. "Tell you what — if 
I went at my farming as you go at your gardening, I would n't 
have a hill of potatoes left." 

" This is n't the way I garden. I 'm vexed because of that 
teasing duckweed — and — why did you come here and 
catch me looking like this?" 


''I beg your pardon. I was just thinking you never 
looked better." 

She laughed. "Thank you for the compliment." 

He placed his hoe against a stone in the foot of the wall, 
and with a bound landed on the path at her side. "I came 
hoping I should find you here. I Ve a letter from my 
brother, at last." 

She became grave at once. "Come to the piazza where 
we can talk without standing in the wet," she said. "Wait 
a moment imtil I wash this earth from my hands." 

There, seated on the low piazza steps, Nathanael read 
her portions of his brother's letter. "You see how things 
stand," he said, at last. 

"Yes. I suppose his college career is ended." 

"I suppose so." 

"Now, Nathanael, listen to me." Elizabeth leaned for- 
ward, and looked earnestly at him. "Do you think it right 
that you should sacrifice yourself any longer for Jack ? " 

"Oh, it isn't that. I haven't sacrificed myself, as you 
call it — you see — there 's father — but then it is n't that, 

"Well," she said at last, impatiently, "you prepared your- 
self, and worked hard for the money, and then what did 
you do ? You dropped everything and spent the money on 
a boy who had n't the grace to appreciate it. Now he leaves 
you in the lurch, with all the spring planting, and does n't 
stick to college, either. You have a right, a God-given right, 
to take what he throws away. If your mother were living 
she would absolve you from all promises, and say go." 

"What thee says is right, Elizabeth." It was the little 
mother who spoke from her chair by the window, where the . 


lace curtains floated about her. She was knitting from 
a pile of white wool in her lap. 

"A man would seem a fool not to take your advice, and 
yet — father has always depended on having one of us with 
him, and a fellow of Jack's spirit finds it pretty hard. He 
learns easily. If he would only persevere, he might be 

"I would rather have your strength of purpose than his 
devemess to 'make somebody,' as you call it, of a man," 
said Elizabeth. 

"Do you think you are quite fair to my brother?" 

She drew her brows together for a moment in thought. 
"Yes, I believe I am. He knows he is clever as well as you 
do ; and he ought to know the value of a college education. 
But what has he done ? Thrown up his chances, and gone 
oflf with that Captain Tobit, just to gratify a spirit of ad- 
venture. It really seems an ignoble part he is playing." 

"He hasn't gone yet. He 's to spend a week at home 

" But he 's not been in college since Christmas. Do you 
know what his companionships were there?" 

"No — well — he was a little reckless, but I've heard 
nothing bad about him. I was told that he said he ' gave up 
and cleared out, because he wished me to have his chance.' 
You see that makes my course a diflScult one." 

"May I ask who told you that?" 

"Certainly — it was Joyful Heatherby. Why?" 

"Because we had been told something so very different. 
It was a friend of mother's who spoke of it, — a member of 
the Harvard Faculty, so it must be correct. We had not 
meant to tell you, but now I think it is better we should. 


He said Jack was suspended, and went off with this captain, 
in the first place, because he did not wish it to be known at 
home." Nathanaei said nothing, but turned his little 
bunch of flowers about in his hands, thoughtfully. "We 
know, of course, there are two sides to it, but you came for 
my opinion, and here it is. Since Jack has taken this step, 
my mind is very clear. You have always lived for him and 
your father — now, live for yourself awhile." 

Nathanaei gave a short laugh. ''Your advice falls so in 
line with my inclination that it blinds me. I mean it makes 
it hard for me to see the exact rights in the case." 

''It is the exact right, Nathanaei, do believe me. But 
— " She was wondering how Joyful Heatherby came to 
know so much about Jack's doings, and how she came to 
tell Nathanaei. 

"It is easy to do things for others — easier than for one's 
self alone. I owe a duty to father, but if I had the right — " 
He looked at her and paused. His blue eyes shone with a 
beautiful light from within. If she had only seen it — but 
her eyes were fixed on the bed of tulips — she would have 
understood. He wanted to say : "If I had the right to do 
it for you," but at present he had earned no such right, so 
he ended lamely, "If there were some one else besides 
father and Jack to whom I owed allegiance, for whom I 
should live, I could decide in a moment." 

But she, not looking into those love-lighted eyes, and 
seeing only the bed of tulips, was thinking of Joyful, while 
he — stupid fellow — did he not know that love must come 
as a free gift, and can never be claimed as a right ? This 
Elizabeth could have told him, had he only asked her. 
How could she know it was for her when she was thinking 


of Jo3rful ? In her heart she said : "He wants to speak to 
me about Joyful, and is ashamed." So she answered coldly, 
but conscientiously gave him the opportunity. 

"Joyful Heatherby stopped here a moment, last evening. 
She said she had seen you — that you had carried her basket 
for her." He looked up in surprise at the apparent irrel- 
evancy, but she went on, severely anxious to do the right 
thing. "Was it then she told you what Jack had said?" 

"Yes. You see, that puts his act in a different light. 
We should do the boy justice, Elizabeth, It no longer 
seems ungrateful, but noble." 

"Was it grateful or noble for him to keep reckless com- 
panionships, and be turned out of college?" 

"He has retrieved himself now, don't you think?" 

"Wait and see, Nathanael." She spoke his name with 
almost a caress in her voice, of which she was unaware, but 
the tone quivered among his heartstrings. 

"Yes, I'll wait. You are good to take this interest; it 
helps me." Then, , as they both sat silent in the morning 
sun, under the vine-covered porch, Mark Thorn passed by. 
He had started early, thinking to do a little work by the way 
— as warm, sunny days in a New England spring are none 
too frequent — but he had been dreaming along and had 
really forgotten to look for a subject. 

"I can't help wondering how your brother came to tell 
Joyful about his affairs," said Elizabeth, at length. 

"That is one of the things that troubles me most in the 
matter. I think he cares for the child. I wished to tell 
you of it, but hardly liked to." 

"Why?" EHzabeth spoke sharply, but the pain in her 
heart was sharp. 


'' She is such a child, for one thing, and Jack is n't — I 
can't talk about it now. Perhaps I 'm mistaken." Poor 
fellow ! He felt Jack had no right to entangle the girl in his 
uncertain career, and wished Elizabeth to help protect her, 
yet did not like to speak against his brother. He loved 
Elizabeth so deeply and tenderly, he could not think her 
oblivious of the fact. It seemed to him that his love cried 
aloud to her in all he said, and most of all when he was 
silent; and so he stumbled along in his goodness, trying 
to be loyal to his brother, and blindly driving the knife 
deeper into her soul and his own, and widening the space 
between them. 

"Surely he loves Joyful," she said, in her heart. "He 
can't speak of it." 

As Mark Thorn passed them, in one keen glance he took 
note of the situation. "This must be the little maid's 
Elizabeth Drew, and the other must be that Nathanael. 
He can't be Jack — not the right type." He lifted his hat 
as he glanced up, but they both gazed dreamily past him. 
"If I were in the South, and these were yoimg Southerners, 
they would have given me a pleasant word," he thought. 

After a moment they were startled from their reverie by 
a cheery, "Good morning." The yoimg artist had turned 
back, and was leaning over the gate, hat in hand, looking at 
them across the beds of tulips. " Can you direct me to the 
house of Mrs. Somers, who takes boarders in the village ? " 

" I 'm going that way ; I '11 show you." Nathanael slowly 
lifted his tall form from the step, and took up his hoe. He 
gave Elizabeth his hand, and looked straight into her eyes 
for an instant. His eyes were windows to his soul. Alas 
that there should have been a veil drawn before hers, as she 


returned the look. ''How beautiful it makes him to love 
Joyful!*' she thought. '* Good-bye," she said. 

"Will you come to choir practice this evening? Joyixii 
said she would be there." Oh, foolish Nathanael ! 

"I — can't say. I fear not," she said, turning away. 
As he climbed the hill, walking beside Mark Thorn, she 
turned again, and looked after him. *'* Behold a Man in 
whom there is no guile,' " she said in her heart. Then she 
went to her room and sat looking out of the window, yet 
seeing nothing, for a long time. Presently a single tear 
dropped on her folded hands. "How utterly absurd of 
me !" she said, wiping it hastily away. Then she rose and 
bathed her face, and re-dressed her glorious hair. 

She stood before the glass, and combed and brushed the 
beautiful red-gold waves clustering about her delicate ears 
and over her broad, low brow, and she never saw that she 
was beautiful. She was too busy considering her duty. 
She must hide this even from herself, and love Joyful as she 
had always done, and help her to become a fit wife for such 
a man. Even her mother must never guess her secret. 
To this end she spent an hour doing light tasks about the 
house before she reappeared, and at last came down with 
her arms full of simimer dresses and skirts of her own. 

"What ails thee, Elizabeth? Thee looks pale," said 
Mrs. Drew, gently. 

"Nothing ails me, mother," she laughed. "I shan't 
let Mrs. Somers come to see thee any more, if she tells thee 
I look peaked, as she did last night. Thee knows she always 
makes mountains out of molehills. Thee remembers she 
said last evening that Mrs. Heatherby was ill ? But Joyful 
told me it was a week ago, and only for one day." 


"Mrs. Somers hath little wit, though a ready tongue. 
But she means well." 

Elizabeth spread out before her mother a silken-lined 
India muslin dress, daintily trimmed with shirred ribbon 
and lace. "Look at this, mother. Whatever can I do with 
it ? I wore it two winters ago, at dances and dinners, and 
it 's all out of date, and too pretty to throw aside. I believe 
I '11 make it over for Joyful ; and this, too." She took a 
pink dimity from the heap, and gave it a shake. " Would n't 
Joy look like an apple blossom in this? How absurd for 
me, with my red hair, to wear pink ! But I did it, and 
didn't know but it was all right. Thee never told me, 
mother. Thee kept to thy drab — with a bit of real lace — 
for thee has a little vanity of thy own, thee knows — but 
as long as I never forgot to use the plain language to thee, 
thee let me wear all kinds of colors with my red hair." 
Elizabeth rearranged her mother's lace cap and silvery hair, 
and kissed her. 

"Thee is thy father's own daughter, Elizabeth, and though 
he was no Friend, a Godly man was thy father. He won 
me from a strict Friends' home, but we agreed that we would 
neither interfere with the faith of the other, and we were 
always happy, thy father and I. I went more often with 
him to the read prayers and services of his church, but he 
did not neglect to go at times with me to our simple worship, 
and it is my belief that he often came away refreshed in 
spirit. He hath gone before, and waits my coming now." 

The dear old lady sat with white hands folded over her 
white wool knitting, looking as if she saw him waiting. Her 
physical frailty made her seem older than she was, and she 
looked so spirit-like that Elizabeth lived in constant dread 


lest she become spirit altogether. Her love for her mother 
was a passionate adoration, that seemed to cast a halo about 
both their lives. 

"Thee mustn't think of going. Thee is all I have, 
mother." She spoke frantically. 

Her mother replied with a quiet smile. "Nay, daughter, 
I have no desire to leave thee. I will stay as long as the 
Lord will let me.'' 

" Mother, what does thee think of making these over for 
Joy? Look at them." 

"I fear thee '11 put worldly ideas in the child's head, if thee 
dresses her in these." 

Elizabeth laughed. "They didn't put worldly ideas in 
my head, mother. Thee always loved to see me in pretty 
dresses, thee knows." 

"Thy station was different. Jo3^ul lives in the woods, 
and her grandfather is a fisherman, with little to spare for 
her, should he die. Where could she wear clothes like 
these ? " 

"To church, and afternoon, with me. I'll take off the 
ribbon and lace, and make them very simply." Elizabeth's 
heroic nature was bent on making her self-abnegation 
generously. Joyful should grow wiser and more beautiful 
under her guardianship. This would she do for Nathanael. 
And he, as he walked on at Mark Thorn's side, swinging 
his hoe in one hand, and canning Elizabeth's flowers in the 
other, was thinking only of her as the star toward which 
he had set his hopes, to be his, if ever he might reach so 

As Nathanael replied to his few questions, Mark could see 
that his thoughts were elsewhere. He felt some contrition 


for having broken up so charming a tableau, but now that 
it was done, he would study the man a little. To be sure, 
he might choose to leave this place next day, and never 
see him again, but what of that ? Mark never saw the being 
yet who did not interest him. The fact helped to make 
his itineracy possible. 

"Don't let me take you out of your way," he said. "I 
would n't have troubled you, but I 'm a total stranger here." 

"No trouble, no trouble. I was going this way myself." 

"You don't often have weather like this in May?" 

"Not often, no." 

"Rather awkward, having no railway station nearer than 
Willoughby Jimction." Mark shifted his load a little. 

"Yes, yes it is," said Nathanad, waking up again. "The 
place is pleasanter without it, though." 

"I agree with you. Pity the one item of transportation 
should involve so much that is disagreeable — spoil so mdch 
coimtry — make so much noise and dirt." 

"Yes, yes, I suppose so. The roads open up the country, 

"Certainly — still, a man in my line of work doesn't 
appreciate the need of having the coimtry opened up. It 
mostly spoils it — it ceases to be primitive, and becomes 
commonplace — and commonplaceness, you know, with us, 
is a sort of crime." 

Nathanael then, for the first time, took notice of his com- 
panion. "We turn here," he said. "You are an artist, 
I see. Let me assist you." 

"No, no. I shoiild feel lost without these traps of mine. 
I 've tramped among the lakes of Maine for hundreds of miles 
with them." 


"Ever been in this section before?" 

"Not in this immediate neighborhood, no. I heard a 
couple talking on the train of Woodbury Center, and some- 
thing about a marsh. I knew the sea was within easy reach, 
and the combination tempted me. Acting on impulse, I 
had my luggage put off at Willoughby Jimction, and then 
learned my only way of getting here was to tramp it." 

"All the way from the Junction this morning ? You must 
have gotten an early start." 

"No. I stopped overnight about a mile back." 

"At Heatherby's cove?" said Nathanad, with a touch 
of surprise. 

"Yes." Mark noted the tone, and preferring not to go 
into detail, continued, "They told me of Mrs. Somers' place. 
What kind of a house does she keep ? Do you know?" 

"Very good, I am told. She — Do you stay long?" 

"I can't say. I'm a sort of an itinerant all summer. 
Where the occasion demands, or the mood takes me, I go 
and gather material. My real work is done in the studio, 
in winter. But you interrupted yourself. This Mrs. 
Somers — is she — " 

"Oh, it won't take long for you to see what she is — a 
busy, overworked, overtalkative little woman; but she 
means well." 

Mark laughed. "Thank you. I see. Did you ever 
notice it 's the well-meaning people in this world who do 
half the mischief that is done in it ? " 

Nathanael smiled, and gave Mark a keen, blue flash of a 
glance. " You 've been about the world a good deal, I 

"I 'm a species of tramp. They 're of all castes, youknow." 


"There's Mrs. Somers' place just ahead. That's her 
husband pottering around in front." 
"Oh, there's a Mr. Somers, is there?" 
"Yes. I'll leave you to his tender mercies." 
"Thank you greatly for your kindness. I hope, if I stay 
any length of time, I may have the pleasure of meeting you 
again. Thorn is my name, Mark Thorn." 

"Thank you. My name is Stoddard. I should be glad 
to have you call, but I 'm usually off in the fields somewhere. 
Our farm is pretty well scattered. We live a lonely life, 
my father and I and an old Irish housekeeper. I 'm more 
at home in a potato patch or a cornfield than an)nvhere else, 
I 'm afraid." He spoke sadly, but with a laugh, and turned 
away. Mark cast a kindly glance after him. He found 
him decidedly interesting. 

heatherby's boy 


Deeper than scorn and swifter than sorrow,— 

Higher than stars and freer than winds ; 
Love flies beyond in the golden to-morrow, •^- 

Trailing his chains, each mortal he binds ; 
No sea so wide that Love may not follow, — 

Peasant or king he blesses and blinds ; 
Strong as the sunbeams and light as the swallow,— 

Sweet the enslavement of all whom he finds. 

The rambling house which Nathanaei pointed out to 
Mark was built with its side close to the street, bringing its 
closed, green window blinds quite within reach of passers-by. 
At the end, some three feet lower than the street, was an 
old orchard, where the grass grew long and thick. A few 
rosebushes grew about the edges of this simken square, and 
near the house a hammock swung between two apple trees. 
In the hammock sat Jane Somers, sewing, and a large- 
nosed young man stood leaning against a tree near by, 
watching her. They had been talking about Nathanaei as 
they saw him advancing down the street, and Jane chose 
not to see the stranger now stopping at the gate. She did 
not wish her chat broken in upon, and at any rate "Pa was 
there — he could see what was wanted," so she sewed on. 
Mark heard the words, "walking with Joy Heatherby 
yesterday," and guessed of what she was speaking. The 



young man mumbled something in nasal tones, and Jane 
laughed shrilly. 

"Pa " conducted Mark in, and he heard no more. "Pa'* 
was very tall, stoop shouldered, large eyed and thin, with 
slow, hesitating manner of speech. 

"Ma must be somewhere about." He "would go and 
find Ma." 

Mark looked about the room. Two things were so promi- 
nent that all else inside its four walls seemed to fade out of 
existence. These two were the carpet and the piano. The 
blinds had been tightly closed to keep the sun from fading 
the former, imfortimately, Mark thought, for it would take 
several years of continual fading to make it endurable. 
The piano was too imcompromisingly new, hard, and polished 
for any fading process to soften its ostentatious presence. 
It grinned at Mark with its ivory keys, like a row of false 
teeth. On its great shiny lid was a sheet of music called 
"Affection's Offering," presented to Jane by the large- 
nosed yoimg man. At least that was Mark's thought as he 
sat there waiting for "Ma." 

"This is an idyllic sort of place," he commented. "First 
comes quaint little Joyful and a yet-to-be-seen Jack ; then 
Elizabeth and Nathanael, and here a young couple lounging 
in the orchard, and 'Affection's Offering ' reposing on the 

"Ma" had been frying doughnuts in the kitchen. She 
bustled in, perspiring at every wrinkle, and the odor of 
frying fat which bustled in with her seemed decidedly 
incongruous in that violently neat room. As Mark was con- 
ducted upstairs and through the hall, the whole house, as 
much as he could see of it, struck him as being also violently 


neat ; and yet, as Mrs. Somers jerked herself about the room 
to which she was consigning him, she continually wiped at 
imaginary dust spots on bureau, window sills, and chairs, 
with her apron. 

"I 'm sure I hope you 11 be comfortable. I do the best 
I can f'r my boarders, 'f I do hev to do it all alone, so to 
speak." She seized hold of a window and rattled it violently 
open — a peg kind of fastening had to be pulled out, and 
kept from snapping back, when the window was lowered 
or raised — and she opened the outside blinds and threw 
them back with a slam. The orchard was just below, and 
a shriek of laughter from Jane sounded an impleasant con- 
trast to the low song he had heard at sunrise, as Joyful 
Heatherby washed the milk pans outside the summer kitchen 
underneath his window. 

"Somers — Somers!" called "Ma" from the top of the 
stairs. "Well, I did think he 'd hev th' sense to fetch up 
them things. Somers! Fetch up them things, won't 
you ? Is there anything we c'n do f r you before dinner, 
Mr. Thorn ? I 'm sure I — " 

Mark hastened to ask, before she could tell him again 
that she did the best she could for her boarders, if he could 
get his box brought over from Willoughby Junction. 

"I guess Somers c'n fetch it for you in th' dem'crat. 
Somers, can't ye fetch over his — what is it, did you say — 
box? Is it a big one?" 

"My trunk, I mean. No, — not very." 

"Can't ye fetch over his trunk f'm the station before 
dinner?" Somers set Mark's belongings inside the door, 
and thought slowly about it. " Can't ye put 'em over there 
out o' the way ? Well, er you goin' to, er ain't you ?" 


^^ Guess I can. Better start after dinner, Ma, 't 's most 
nine now, 'nd it takes half an hour to hitch up." 

"For th' land's sake! Most nine? Mr. Thorn, you 
must make yerself to home wherever ye be. I 'U go and 
hurry up about them pies. Somers, you'd better get 
hitched up now; 'f you wait till after dinner, th' 's no 
tellin' when y' will get started." 

She bustled off, and "Pa" slowly crept downstairs after 
her, and out to hitch up. Mark felt himself growing dis- 
tinctly sorry for him, but he need not have been. "Pa" 
was contented to let "Ma" earn a living for him while he 
sat around at the village store, and dreamily gossiped with 
those who dropped in. He certainly was " enough to try 
the patience of a Saint," as his spouse often remarked. 
She had been remarking it for twenty-five years. 

Mark had knocked about the world enough to be able to 
take things as he found them. As this was the only board- 
ing house in the village, it must serve his purpose. He 
congratulated himself that, if the weather was fair, he need 
spend but little time on the premises, and rejoiced in the 
fact that he had arranged for a sail that afternoon with 
the old fisherman. Accordingly, after dinner, he climbed to 
a seat in the democrat beside Mr. Somers, to ride as far as 
the road leading to the cove, and as they jogged along, the 
personal history of various inhabitants was monotonously 
droned out to him. Aided by a few questions now and then, 
to keep the old man from too frequent digression, he soon 
had the cream of the village gossip, when he adroitly turned 
the stream of talk in the direction of those in whom he had 
already begun to take an artist's interest. 

"Hcatherbys? Yes, they've always lived wheer they 


be, 'nd his father before him, 'nd his father before hiniy 
jnore'n likely. Mrs. Heatherby, she was a Spinner, 'nd 
come f ' up Lynn way. Never knowed how he come to fall 
in with her, but the' do say — What say ? " 

"Are they quite alone? Have they no one but this 
granddaughter ? " 

" Guess they be. She 's all they hev' now. Well, ye see 
't was this way. They had one son 't they just lived and 
breathed for. They scraped 'nd saved 'nd give him a good 
ed'cation, college, 'nd well, he was wuth it. He was a good 
boy, fer a fact. I d' know 's I ever heard o' that boy doin' 
anything out o' the way — but then — Id' know 's you 'd 
expect it. Boys is a good deal like the stock they come 
from. Now on his ma's side, the' was a minister on her 
side, they say. Anyway, they 're good stock. I d' know 's 
any o' them 're left or not. I never heard o' but one brother, 
'nd he was drowned some three years back. He was a 
cap'n, 'nd he was out — What say?" 

"What became of the boy?" 

"The boy ? Oh, he growed up all right. Fine boy, too. 
Didn't make e'zactly what she set out to make of him, 
though. Well, ye see, 't was this way. She 's pretty set, 
Mrs. Heatherby is, 'nd she 'd lay'd out to make a minister 
out o' him, same 's one o' her forbears was, 'r a teacher — 
somethin' settled down, but Land's sakes, make a settled- 
down man out o' a boy whose forbears was all sea cap'ns 
on both sides, pretty much! There was her father, 'nd 
his father 'fore him, 'nd there was her uncle, 'nd her brother 
— all she ever had — all lost their lives on the sea — 'nd 
there was Heatherby's father, 'nd all th' men folks on his 
side, they 've always owned that cove 'nd a few acres o' 


land, 'nough to keep th' women folks on — sort o' family 
anchorage, so to speak. Men all followed the sea — bom 
in 'em. Might 's well set out to fetch up a calf out o' a mon- 
key 's turn a bom seaman into a minister or a college profes- 
sor. Not but what they was good stock — good pious folk, 
f er 's I see, but the' was — What say ? " 

"Did the boy take to the sea, then?" 

"Like a fish. Well, ye see, 'twas this way. Guess he 
had n't no idee o' goin' 'gainst his ma's will so — any rate 
he stuck to the studyin' — guess he liked it first-rate, too. 
Summers he 'd spend on th' water, cruisin' roimd with his 
father. They had a first-rate boat them days — good fishin' 
boat. Don 't know what 's become of it. Some say 't was 
lost, 'nd some say 't was sold, but if 't was, no one ever heard 
what he got f 'r it. Heatherby, he 's close mouthed, 'nd I 
d' know 's — What say ? The boy ? Yes, he went through 
college all right, no mistake. Guess he was up to th' top 
there, anyway he was cap'n o' their boat crew, 'nd they 
went over to England 'nd rowed there, 'nd he like to beat 
the Johnnies all out, — so the' say. That boy, he was 
a big fellow — big frame like his father. He c'ld pull a 
boat — well, you never see — he c'ld pull like an ox, 'nd 
give orders like a admiral. They were all that way, the 
Heatherbys — all commandin'. His father wan't so much 
so, but his grandfather, why, I 've heard them 'at knew 
him say th' wan't nobody 't could stand agin his eye. 
That was like the boy. He c'ld hold his own wherever he 
went, 'nd the' wan't nobody but what he c'ld have his way 
with. Well, when he come back f'm England with the 
college crew, you never see any man finer lookin' nor ijosier. 
Hb ma thought the' never was a boy on earth before. Well, 


that 's natur'Ii ma's is apt to be that way. Now, I knew 
a woman once, her name was Wade. She was a widow, 'nd 
she had three boys — What say?" 

"Is the yoxmg girl there his daughter?" 

"Who? Joy? Yes, she was his girl. Well, you can't 
have any idee imless you 've watched folks 's I have, how 
them that 's bom to the sea pine away on land. Now that 
boy, he tried to work out his ma's plans, spent a year back 
in New York State, I d' know where, nor what he was doin', 
but he was just climbin' up — so the' say — but when he 
come home, I see he wan't what he was, 'nd I says to S'phi 
— that's Mrs. Somers — her name's S'phi, — I says, that 
fish '11 die 'f he don't have salt water, 'r salt air. He 
looked 's if he 'd been fed on chalk 'nd water, 'nd his eyes 's 
big 'nd black 'nd hollow 's two burnt holes 'n a blanket. 
It does beat all how little some o' these great strappin' men 
c'n stand. Now I had a brother once, he was twice my 
heft — he up 'nd died with typhoid pneumonia, 'nd he 
wan't sick a week. I'd — What say?" 


"Who? My brother? No, he died." 

"No, I mean the boy." 

"Oh, the boy. Yes, he went. The' wan't nothin' else 
for him to do. He went on a long cruise 'nd was gone more 'n 
a year. When he come back, you never see such a change 
in any one in your life. He looked bigger 'nd browner, 'nd 
finer — I saw his ma standin' waitin' f'r him to land — 
his pa 'd gone out in the fishin' boat 'nd met him, 'nd they 
come sailin' up the cove to their little pier in the evenin' 
blush, 'nd you 'd ought to 'a' seen his ma — looked like all 
the sunlight the' was 'd got into her face 'nd eyes, 'ith a 


drop o' two o' rain mixed in. He took 'er in his arms 'nd 
kissed her — jest the puttiest sight I ever did see, 'less I 
might say one." 

As Somers talked, the reins himg below the dashboard 
in a festoon. He flapped them, now and then, and clucked 
to the horse, who gave no heed to the admonition, other than 
that indicated by a switch of the tail, or the laying back of 
an ear, and jogged on the same slow, even pace, suggested 
by the monotone of his driver's voice. Wishing to hear the 
end of the story of Heatherby's boy before they parted, 
Mark betrayed no impatience, but simply asked, "What 

"What say?" 

"You said it was the prettiest sight you ever saw but one, 
and I asked, What one?" 

"What one ? That was when he brought his wife home. 
You see 't was this way. After that time he followed th' 
sea, 's he was bom to do, 'nd one time they picked up a boat 
loaded with folks f'm a wreck, 'nd she was on that boat. 
'T was f 'm a French line, 'nd some say she was French, 'nd 
some say she was English. She might 'a' been both f 'r all 
I know. Well, they cruised 'round some, I guess, anyhow 
they put some o' th' wrecked folks off on to another ship, 
'nd some stayed by, — however 't was, the' was time enough 
f 'r him to fall in love with her all 't once, 's boys will. The' 
was a story 't she 'd seen him before, 't she was the girl 't 
pinned a rose on his coat over in England, that time our boys 
tried to win the cup. Well, 'f that was so, ' t would go to show ' t 
she was English, would n't it. Anyhow, his ship happened 
to be boxmd f 'r a French port, 'nd her father 'nd mother 
was both drowned in th' wreck — they was in th' boat that 


capsized — so the' say — 'nd the' wan't neither kith nor 
kin o' hers left f 'r him to take her to, 'nd so she was bound 
to go to a little village in France where they 'd been living — 
well, that would go to show 't she was French now, too. 
However, that ain't neither here nor there, but this much I 
was told, square, 'nd I guess it was so. Ye see, how I come 
to hear it all, the stewardess of his ship, she got tired o' 
sailin', 'nd kind o' off her feed some, 'nd she stayed one whole 
winter 't our house — she had her board cheap that winter, 
too — she said this girl sot there gaz'n' off on the sea, lookin' 
more like a spirit 'n she did like a hmnan. She never shed 
a tear, nor took on like some, but just sot there lookin' 
like her soul 'd go out o' her eyes after somp'n she see 'nd 
no one else, 'nd so forlorn, 'ith nobody to look to. The folks 
she was took on with was all rough sailor men, 'nd one Irish 
woman f 'm the steerage — rest was all on the other boat. 
Ye see, she was a brave little thing, the men said, 'nd she 
just pushed her ma and pa on ahead o' her into th' first 
boat, 'nd then the' wan't room f 'r her, so she was put in th' 
other one, 'nd that separated them. So 't come, 't when 
she see the other boat capsize, 't she thought she 'd killed 
them. Land sakes ! She done the best she could. She 
had n't a thing on earth but the clo's she had on, 'nd they 
was all torn 'nd draggled in sea water 'nd tar. She never 
seemed to care how she looked, just sot there 'ith her hands 
in her lap 'nd her eyes on th' sea." 

They were passing the Drew homestead, and the invaKd 
was seated in her chair on the piazza. Within, some one 
was singing a slumber song of Schumann's, and playing a 
perfect accompaniment. 

"Who is that playing?" asked Mark. 


"That must be TLiz'beth. The' 's nobody here c'n play 
'nd sing 's she can. Well, I calculate she 'd ought to. She 's 
been over in Europe, they say, 'nd took lessons o' th' best. 
They 're proud folks, those Drews — she is, at any rate. 
Now we 've tried to get her to teach Jane, 'nd you suppose 
she 'd do it ? Not much ! 'nd there she '11 take Joy Heath- 
erby in hand, 'nd teach her f'r nothin'. Well, let her do 's 
she's a mind to. S'phi 's got a teacher f'r Jane now 't 
c'n play on the piano like a steam engine. We don't need 
to be behold'n to her any." Somers gave a cluck to the 
horse, and a more decided flap to the reins, and for a moment 
they took a livelier pace. Mark hastened to turn him back 
to his xmfinished tale. 

"You were talking about the boy," he said. 

" Heatherby 's boy ? Yes. Well, so 't was. He c'd make 
anybody do whatever he wanted 'em to. It was his way. 
He'd look at '.em 'nd talk quiet, 'nd kind o' draw 'em. 
When he 'd look ye right in the eye, why, then ye 'd feel 
either like gitt'n' down 'nd crawlin' off, 'r else ye 'd have to 
go his way. 'T was what I call a drawin' kind o' way. Well, 
he stood it 's long 's he could, 'nd then he broke through that 
kind o' wall o' stillness she 'd set up around her. He woke 
her up. Once she said to him, ' I can't talk to you. I feel 's 
if I were dead.' He just stooped down, 'nd she looked in 
his eyes — she had to — 'nd then he lifted her up, 'nd pulled 
her hand through his arm. * You must n't sit this way 'r you 
will be,' he said, 'walk up 'nd down 'ith me a little. It 's so 
calm 't '11 do ye good,' 'nd she did. Then she begged him 
not to try to save her — said she wished 't she was dead, 
but he kep' on walkin' and talkin' to her in that low, quiet 
way o' his ; 'nd by 'm by he brought her back, 'nd set beside 


her, 'nd after that he never left her side when she was there. 
Well, he drew her on to talk, 'nd found out all about her. 
T? seems her pa 'd been sick, and they 'd lived in the south 
o' France f'r his health, till the doctor said 't he 'd got to die; 
so they was goin' back to England, 'nd everything 'd been 
sold 'nd turned into money but her pa's books, 'nd her ma 
would n't sell them — 'nd could n't, if she would, more 'n 
likely. They 've got them books now over to Heatherby's. 
I see 'em once when I was doin' a job o' carpenterin' in 
a great closet top o' th' stairs. 

"So 't seems 't he comforted her up some, 'nd promised 
he 'd do anything she wanted, 'nd she wanted to go back to 
that place, 'nd get them books, 'nd then go to England, 'nd 
teach French for a livin'. It wan't very far f'm where 
he was goin', so when they got into port, he took th' stew- 
ardess 'long, 'nd they went there 'nd stayed a spell, — some 
kind o' name she told S'phi — I forget what — 'nd he give 
the woman some money, 'nd sent her out with the girl, 
to get her some new clo'es. 

" She said the girl tried to get him to take a locket she had 
tied to a string 'bout her neck, 't had her ma's picture in, 
'nd was made o' gold, 'nd set with diamonds, 'nd a ring on 
the same string 't her ma 'd put there, sayin' 't they might 
get parted, 'nd it 'ud be same's money to her, but 
Land sakes ! He would n't touch them things, — said she 
might pay him back sometime, though, so 't she 'd feel right. 
Well, they went, 'nd she come back dressed all in black, 'nd 
he looked at her 'nd did n't seem satisfied. Then he took 
her out into th' flower garden o' th' house they was stoppin' 
at, 'nd walked round with her a spell, amongst the flower 
bushes, 'nd he looked in her face, 'nd she looked down, 'nd 


he kep' on talkin', till by 'm by she looked up in his eyes. 
The woman said she was peekin' through the blinds o' th' 
girFs window. For the life of her she said she could n't 
help it, 'nd she see him. He kissed her, right there on th' 
spot, 'nd the girl put both hands over her face, 'nd he took 
'em down, 'nd then they walked on a spell. By 'm by they 
come in, 'nd he went into th' parlor, 'nd she came upstairs 
where the stewardess was — her name was Jones, Hannah 
Jones — 'nd she says, *I think I'll lie down awhile, Mrs. 
Jones, I — I 'm tired,' 'nd she did. 

''Pretty soon Mrs. Jones, she see her shoulders shakin^, 
'nd she knew she was cryin'. First time she seen her cry 
a tear, but she knew 't would do her good, so she went out 'nd 
walked in th' flower garden a spell herself — she could n't 
go in the parlor where he was, pacin' up 'nd down there like 
a lion in a circus cage. When she went back upstairs the 
girl was standin' at th' window, 'nd her eyes was shinin* 
'nd her cheeks was red, 'nd she went to th' glass 'nd began 
brushin' her hair. It was dark hair 'nd hung most to the 
floor, so long she had to ketch it by th' middle 'nd brush 
out the end, 'nd then brush out th' top some way. That was 
the first time Mrs. Jones see her look in th' glass, too. Well, 
that night she never went down where he was — had her 
supper sent up. He stayed in the little parlor all alone, 'nd 
when Mrs. Jones came down he sot by th' table 'ith his 
head bowed in his arms, 'nd he looked up 'nd he says: 
*How is she?' 'nd she says, 'She's been cryin' some, but 
that 's just what she needs,' 'nd he says somethin' imder his 
breath, 'nd began walkin' the floor again. Long after they 
got to bed they c'ld hear him walkin' up 'nd down, up 'nd 
down, but the girl didn't say nothin'. 


"Next momin', when she was brushing her long hdr 'gain, 
she says, *D* you think 't would be very bad 'f I was to wear 
all white 'stead o' all black ? Mr. Heatherby wants me to,' 
'nd Mrs. Jones says, 'Why, everybody does his way, 'nd 
I guess you'll come to it. Anyhow, white's a sort o' 
moumin' — 't ain't so depressin' on a young spent. I guess 
the cap'n 's all right. He gen'rally is.' 

" Well, when they went down to breakfast, Mrs. Jones, she 
stayed back a lettle 's if she 'd gone fr somethin', but not 
too far to hear, 'nd he says, very low, ' I took advantage of 
you. I couldn't help it — God forgive me. Will you? 
Will you?' 'nd the girl said somethin' so soft she couldn't 
hear, but 't was all right she guessed, fr when she came in 
there they sot 'ith the breakfast table between 'em, 'nd a 
place f 'r her at the end, 'nd the girl was lookin' at her plate, 
'nd he kep' lookin' at her 's if he could n't ever quit, 'nd 
she never lifted her eyes but once, 'nd then 't was to look 
square into his, 'nd down again. Well, then she was goin' 
to see some o' th' folks o' th' village she used to know, 'nd 
he said 't he 'd go with her. So they walked out, she all in 
black, 'nd he lookin' at her 's if he never see a girl before. 
She picked a rose 'nd a bud from a flower bush 's they 
walked down the path, 'nd when they come back 'twas 
evenin', 'nd of all things in the world ! Mrs. Jones said 't 
took her breath away. He 'd had his way, f 'r sure. She 
was dressed all in white — white dress, 'nd white shawl — 
silk one — 'nd she had th' rose in her dress, 'nd he had the 
bud in his coat buttonhole, 'nd he says, * Mrs. Jones, I 've 
brought this young lady back again. She's my wife. 
We 've been married in the chmrch, 'nd some o' her good 
friends stood as witnesses.' 


"Mrs. Jones said, fr all she 'd seen 'nd heard 'nd was in 
a sort prepared f 'r it, you could ha' knocked her down with 
a feather. But 'twas heartsome to see 'em after that. 
'Twas his kind o' drawin' way. 

"Well, then, they got her pa's books 'nd sent 'em to the 
ship, 'nd then he took her to England, to see her pa's folks. 
Well, that 'ud go to show 't she was English, would n't it ? 
More 'n likely she was. Then he fetched her here. 'T was 
then, 's I say, the purtiest sight I ever did see, when he 
handed her over to his ma, 'nd she took her in her arms 'nd 
kissed her, 'nd then drawed oflf 'nd looked at her, 'nd he 'nd 
his pa watchin' 'em, 'nd then his pa says, * Why, ma, ain't I 
goin' to be 'lowed to kiss her, too ? ' 'nd she turned 'nd put 
up her two arms, 'nd drawed his head down 'nd kissed him 
on the cheek. 

"I see that much, 'nd then I went off down to th' landin'. 
I was there to haul the things f'm the boat. Heatherby, 
he always used to go out to meet his boy some'eres, 'nd 
that was the way he always come home, sailin' up the cove 
to their little pier in his father's fishin' boat. 

"Well, that was a good spell ago. Let 's see, it must ha' 
been twenty year — but I never forget. I never forget a 
courtin' anyway, once 't I hear of it." 

"And now they are both gone?" said Mark. 

"Yes, both gone. But they was the happiest, lovin'est 
couple you ever did see, 'nd purty to look at, too. Le's see. 
Two 'nd one 's three, 'nd one — yes, 't was four year ago. 
Remember the' was a spell o' bad weather tore up th' 
shippin' early in the fall ? Well, that time the sea took them 
both. The old lady like to died over it f'r a spell, 'nd then 
she picked up again, but the' do say she ain't been quite right 


in her head since, though I never see anything out o' the way. 
Now they just live f 'r that girl. Mis' Heatherby never lets 
her out o' her sight, hardly — never sent her to school, f r 
fear somethin' 'd happen to her. Jane sajrs 't they're 
bringin' her up a perfect fool. They do say 't her ma, the 
girl 't Heatherby's boy fished out o' the sea 'nd married, 
was real smart, 'nd taught the girl herself. Jane says 't 
she learned that child to talk French 'nd read Latin, too. 
Land sakes ! Whatever c'n a poor girl do with them 
things? She never learnt her any 'rithmetic to speak of, 
'nd sence she lost her ma, Jane says 't she don't believe that 
child 's learnt one single thing, 'cept what she picks up down 
to 'Liz'beth's. Well, you get down here. I turn this way. 
You '11 find Heatherby's down the road a piece, just hid by 
them trees." 



** Yea, but," quoth she, " the perfll of this place 
I better wot than you : Though nowe too late 
To wish you backe retuine with foul disgrace, 
Yet wisdome warnes, whilest foot is in the gate^ 
To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 
This is the Wandering Wood, this Errours Den, 
A monster vile, whom God and man does hate : 
Therefore I read, beware." 

— The Faerie Queene. 

Mark Thorn walked on musing. He thought of Joyf uFs 
father in his love-making, and of the young wife, and then 
of the little child, bom in the cottage and growing up in 
that lonely spot, within sound of the sea. He no longer 
wondered at the charm of the girl, nor at the frank, un- 
shrinking gaze that met his with a sort of other-worldliness 
in it — at least with none of this worldliness to infuse therein 
even a hint of self-consciousness. Arriving at the house, he 
saw no one, but heard her singing, and followed the sound 
of her voice. There she stood, the dasher of the chum 
lifted in one hand, peering into the depths of the deep stone 
jar. She looked up and smiled. Having seen him before, 
that morning, a greeting seemed to her unnecessary. 

" Grandfather 's down at the pier. He 's waiting for you, 
I think," she said. 

"Has the butter come?" Mark was loth to go. "I 
used to chum for mother. Let me see if I can do it now/' 



"No, no. You '11 spofl it, and spatter your clothes, too.** 
She deftly slipped the handle of the dasher from the cover, 
from which she removed the oream with her finger, and then 
began whirling the dasher about the inside of the chum. 
What do you do that for?" he asked. 
I'm gathering it. See ? " 

"How good it smells !" He looked in at the golden ball 
floating in the white milk, and then glanced down the path. 
"I hope I have n't kept your grandfather waiting too long." 

"No — he has to bring up the boat anyway. If you 
can wait another minute, I '11 go down with you and take 
him a pitcher of buttermilk. Do you like it ? " 

"I do, indeed." 

"Look in now. See how nice and hard the butter is." 

Obediently he looked in, then leaned against the door 
post, and watched her swift movements until she had the 
golden ball drained, and rinsed, and carried away. Then 
he held the pitcher while she filled it, dipping the milk, in 
which tiny yellow bits were still floating, with an earthen 
cup. "Now!" she said, snatching her simbonnet, and 
they started on the path that meandered down to the 
curved shore line. 

"Did you make the butter we had this morning? Do 
you always make it ? It was fine." 

" Yes, I made that. Sometimes I make it, and sometimes 
grandmother does. She is n't feeling well to-day. She 
never does when grandfather goes out with his boat — 
but then — I think he 'd die if he could n't go off on a sail 
now and then." She paused, and looked wistfully in his 
face. " You — you 'U not be away very long, will you ? " 

"Oh, no, no. I only wish to explore the coast a little. 


We won't be gone more than three hours at the most-^ 
not so long, if you don't wish it.'' 

"It 's grandmother — I would go myself for that matter, 
but she — she worries so while he's out." 

"I'll bear it in mind," said Mark, gently. 

The cottage stood on a decided rise of groimd, and the 
path led away from the road by which Mark came, through 
a green pasture lot. A field of low blueberry bushes on 
one side skirted the woods, which stretched away inland, 
not dense as in midsummer, but delicately clothed in young 
spring green. The slope of the land was gradual until it 
terminated in a high bluff-like terrace, down which a steep 
path led them, with many crooks and turns, to the tide- 
washed sands. Here Joyful called two undulating notes, 
sweet and strong, as if blown upon a flute, and her grand- 
father's shout came up to them from the boat, which swung 
at the far end of the pier with all sails set, for the breeze 
was light. As they started down the bluff, Mark turned, 
but Joyful darted past him ere he could give her his hand, 
and was out on the sands, waving her glasses to her grand- 
father, before he was halfway down. "Fresh buttermilk, 
grand-daddy," she cried, and the old man stepped out on 
the pier. 

"So. She kq)t you waiting for grand-daddy's butter- 
milk, did she ?" he said, as Mark came up with the pitcher. 
Then they sat on the pier together and drank it, while 
Joyful stood watching the waves creep up the sands and 
back again. 

"Isn't it pretty here?" she said, at last. "See them 
curl and gather themselves together, and then slide back. 
They are never tired." 



"Are you ever?" asked Mark, looking up at her. 

She smiled and shook her head, but kept her eyes fixed 
on the sea, the long, shining line of which could be seen 
outside their protected little haven. "How far it is," she 
said, "over there, beyond that line. You have been 
there in the outside. It seemed so different, as I heard you 
talking last night, from what I always used to imagine." 
What did you imagine?" said Mark. 
Oh, everything. I used to think this Kttle spot was 
the only safe place in all the world. That was because, 
when I used to beg to go away with father, mother used to 
say, when we stood here and watched the boat sailing oflf, 
and off, until it was only a speck on that line — 'Non, non, 
ma petite — id nous sommes heureux. Tout y est bon, 
et on respire le bonheur. Le Bon Dieu nous a conduit id, 
et k cette mfime place t' a donnde k nous. Done aime-le 
bien, et prie-le de nous ramener bientdt Papa.' " She spoke 
with an impetuous rush of words, and as suddenly paused. 

"Your mother yras certainly right; it is one of the safe 
places of the world. What else did you use to imagine ? " 

"Monsters of the deep. I believed in them. Sometimes 
early, when the rest were asleep, I would run down to the 
edge of the hill there, and watch the clouds piled up on the 
far-away edge where the sky comes down to the sea, for I 
thought they were the tangled-up heads and tails of the 
monsters, and that my father was out there fighting them. 
When the sun came up and turned them all into gold and 
they would float away, then I thought my father had 
conquered ; but when it would be dark and they would seem 
to go down into the sea, I thought they had gone to hatch 
some more. But then I was a child. We never think such 


things nowadaj^ — do we, grand-daddy? I suppose I 
should n't tell of them now, either, for now I am grown a 
woman, and must 'put away childish. things. ' " She sighed 
then, and turning, looked back at the cottage. 

"Who ever told ye such a thing as that, child ?" said the 
old man, wiping his mouth, and setting his glass on the pier 
with a rap. 

"Grandmother, and so did Elizabeth yesterday. My 
chin comes up to her shoulder now, and she's my 'Ladye 
Faire' and knows what's right." 

Her grandfather looked dubiously straight before him. 
"I guess you 're going to be my little girl 's long 's you live, 
if ye'r chin comes up to the moon," he said. 

"Yes, grand-daddy, I will — always." She clasped 
her two hands about his face, and tipped his head back 
until she could look into his eyes, and then kissed his seamed 
forehead. Mark stood looking at the two as she bent over 
the kindly old face, with the loving light in her eyes, and 
a new sensation awoke within him. It was sweet to feel, 
and pleasant to remember. 

Joyful released her grandfather, and turned toward Mark 
suddenly. "Do you know how to manage a boat, too?" 
she asked. 

*'One like this I do. I am used to sailing." 

''Then you must take good care of my grandfather, 
she said, laughing. "He is all the playmate I have. 

The old man rose with a laugh, straightened his gaimt 
figure, and swung out his long arms. Then he began 
hauling on the ropes that held the craft to the pier, and 
stepped in. "Guess we'd better start," he said. 

*'AU right," said Mark. "Good-bye, Miss—" He 




was going to say Miss Heatherby, but a glance at her 
grandfather's face made him pause. ^'Good-bye, Miss 
Joyful. Thank you for the good buttermilk. I may not 
see you again for some time, for I 'm to be put off on the 
other side of the point." 

" Good-bye/' she said, in a low voice, as if her thoughts 
were elsewhere. She took his offered hand, and her fingers 
dosed warmly over his, with a touch he liked. 

"I wish you were going, too," he said. 

"Yes, yes, grand-daddy, let me go, too." She held out 
her arms to him impulsively. "Oh, grand-daddy, come." 

"This boat's Mr. Thorn's for the rest of the day," said 
the old man hesitatingly, glancing at the sky. 

"Of course, I forgot," she stooped to pick up the glasses. 

"No, no. It is yours. Miss Joyful. Please come. It 
was my thought first, you know." 

But she stood hesitating, her shining eyes on her grand- 
father. Her bonnet hung by the strings across her white 
throat, and the breeze tossed her brown hair across her 
face. Thorn waited with hand extended to help her in. 
"Come, child, come. We '11 both enjoy the sail better for 
havin' ye along," said the old man at last. 

"Then we '11 put these in the boat, please." She handed 
the pitcher and glasses to Mark, who passed them on. 
"If grandmother should come down and find them here, 
she 'd think I 'd fallen in, and be frightened to death." 

Her grandfather cast another look at the sky. "I 
d' know," he said, " 's we shall get an3n;7here now, the wind 's 
died down so." 

"I'm happy sitting here and looking at the sea and 
shore, if the boat does n't move," said Mark, settling himself 


in a comer, and looking past Joyful's smiling face at the 
sUver line of the open sea. 

"Oh, there is enough wind to get out o' the cove; all is, 
I don't want to get off 'nd have it drop 'nd keep us out so 
long 's to frighten Marthy.'' 

"You could put me out in the small boat, and I could row 
back and tell her you were all right," said Joyful. 

Her grandfather was fetching the craft around, and they 
drew away from the pier, moving so smoothly over the 
surface of the bay that they seemed to be standing still, 
while the woods and shore line crept backwards. Mark 
sat facing Joyful, while she, with her hands clasped behind 
her head, leaned against a mast, and gazed with dreamy 
eyes at the slowly fading shore. 

"I suppose growing old is like that," she said, at last. 

"Like what?" asked Mark, in some surprise. 

"Why, you see the shore seems to be moving, and going 
away, and fading out, and that is the way with things we 
do, or play when we are little. First they are clear and 
distinct, and all around us, just as the shore was a few 
minutes ago; and then they begin to go back, farther 
and farther, and new days come, so still, one after another, 
that we think we are standing still, and the things we did 
and thought are gomg away behind us, and aU becoming in 
a sort of mist ; while really it is we who are nmning from 
them, and finding new things all the time." 

The old man was at the far end of the boat examining 
some nets, unheeding the talk. Mark was pleased. This 
young girl, with mind as yet untrammeled by any con- 
ventional lines of modem thought or life was becoming 
more and more interesting to him. He decided to make 


a sketch of her pose as she sat there with smiling, parted 
lips, and fumbled about for his notebook and pencil, as he 
said, "If that were all there is to growing old, it would n*t 
be such a very unpleasant thing, would it?" 

*'Is it?" she said softly. 

Mark laughed, and scratched away with his pencil. 
"You haven't grown old long enoiigh yet to know, so I 
sha' n't tell you. You will find out for yourself." 

"Have you?" she asked. 

"Well, hardly, yet." 

"Then how could you tell me ?" 

"Ah, but I have lived longer than you, and I have been 
about the world and have observed." Her expression 
changed tantalizingly from moment to moment. Now 
she leaned forward, looking inquiringly in his face, and he 
turned over a leaf, leaving the first pose unfinished. "I 
will go back to it again, for she will be sure to take it. I 
will make her, if she does not," he thought. 

"Of course I know that. It was very interesting, your 
talk last evening. I wish you would talk more. Are you 
making a picture now?" she glanced behind her. "IHere 
is nothing to make there. Do you make them out of )<»ur 
mind? May I see it?" 

"I am only making marks now — taking notes. Yes, 
sometimes I make pictures out of my mind, but first I 
must make them in my mind. No, I can't let you see 
this for it isn't made yet. Sometime, when I have my 
materials with me, I will make you a picture all your own, 
and let you watch me do it.'* 

Her eyes shone with pleasure. "That would be good of 
you, to let me see you make one, but I should not want you 


to give it to me. Won't you talk now, as you did last night, 
about, — oh, about all the world?" 

'^Oh, that 's too big a subject for so smaU a boat, and so 
small a young lady. It would swamp us." 

'^I shall ask you questions, as grandfather did. That's 
the way to make you talk." 

"Very well, fire away, only don't let them hit too hard." 

She was silent a moment. Suddenly, with a low laugh 
she asked, "Did you ever fight any monsters of the deep? 
We are going into the outside now. They are all out here." 
She glanced behind her again, with a Uttle shiver. 

"Yes — at least — I have tried to fight some of them," 
said Mark, gravely, working rapidly on. 

She regarded him earnestly. "Of coiirse, you know I 
don't really believe all that, even if I have never been away 
from our little cove. I know what they mean." 

"What do they mean? Tell me." 

She laughed again. "Oh, if you've fought them, you 
know what they mean." 

"Ah, yes. But they may mean one thing to me and 
another to you. So tell me what they mean to you." 

She looked down and was silent a moment. "Why," 
she said at last, " as I have never been out in the world, I 
have to imagine them, as I used to imagine in the first place. 
When I was very Uttle I thought they were really and truly 
dragons and monsters such as the 'Gentle Knight' in the 
*Faerie Queene' went out to fight; but then I came to 
think afterwards that they meant the trials and temptations 
and the despondency that one has to fii^t away before one 
can ever be anything. That's ^i^t they mean to me 




I guess they mean very much the same thing to both of 
uSy Miss Joyful. I have n't fought many of the first, but I 
have of the last." 

"Why?" she asked gravely. 

"Why? I can hardly tell you. It was because I came 
near losing my ideals. I had to fight to keep them. When 
a man, especially an artist, loses his ideals he loses his own 
soul. He 's worth nothing after that." 

She leaned back, greatly to his satisfaction, with her hands 
clasped behind her head as before and he turned again to 
the unfinished pose. Presently she said in a low voice, as 
if thinking audibly, ''By ideals do you mean the pictures 
you make in your mind, the way Michael Angelo made the 
ceiling of the Sistine Chapel ? I suppose he made them in 
his mind first, did n't he ? Or do you mean something — 
something more ?" 

"I mean more — much more, Miss Joyful. I can scarcely 
tell you all I mean. It is something like an aspiration — 
where one gets one's inspiration from above one's self. If 
an artist loses his ideals he cannot make pictures in his 
mind any more. The power goes from him. It 's like — 
how can I tell you ? — a continual reaching up — " 

"I think I understand." She turned toward him with 
suddenly illimiined face. ''Ideals are like God dose to 
him. He reaches up and there is God, and just below is 
his own heart, and all the world is down imdemeath him ; 
but when he loses his ideals his heart goes down, and the 
world gets above him, and God is not there. The monsters 
are the things which steal his ideals. He must fii^t them.'^ 

"Ah, there you are a wise little woman, Miss Joyful.'^ 

She made a slight movement, as if disturbed in a pleasant 


dream. ''No, I'm not wise. I've never been to school. 
I wish I could." She glanced back at her grandfather, who 
still sat working at his nets in the far end of the boat watch- 
ing the sky and shifting a sail now and then, and added in 
a low tone, " You see, I can't leave them, and they could n't 
send me, anyway." 

"I'm glad you've never been to school." Mark spoke 
warmly. "You're far better as you are. Who taught you 
about the Sistine Chapel, and the things of which we 've 
been talking?" 

"My mother," she said sadly. "I can talk of her to you 
and grandfather, but never to grandmother. It makes 
her ill. You '11 never speak of them to her, will you ? " 

"No, Miss Joyful, I never will. But sometime you'll 
tell me about them, won't you?" he said gently. 

"I love to talk about father and mother. I don't want 
ever to forget how they looked, and the things they used to 
say to each other and to me." They were silent awhile. 
Suddenly Joyful looked straight into his eyes with the same 
grave regard he had noticed the evening before, and then 
with a light sigh, turned her gaze on the sea, but did not 

Mark felt that in the maid's heart were sacred places, 
yet longed to venture therein. "What were you thinking 
just now ? Will you tell me ? " he said at last. 

"I was thinking how far away yesterday seems, when 
I was walking in the lane and you came and spoke to me. 
One would think now that you'd alwaj^ known us. Is 
ihgt the way it is in the world ? Do people feel so quickly 
as It they had always known each other, and talk right 
along about things they care much for?" 




I think not, Miss Joyful — or very seldom. Some 
people hold aloof who have known each other for years, and 
never feel even so well acquainted as we do now. I think 
in order to feel as we do, people must be kindred spirits, 
or have something m common ; then time does n't make so 
much diflference, and they can talk together of things they 
care much for without having to wait.*' 

"But we — we are so far apart in everything. How 
could we be kindred spirits, or have anything in common, 
unless — *' she hesitated. 

"Unless what, were you going to say?" 

Still she paused. "I 'm afraid what I was going to say 
might seem presiunption on my part, so I won't say it," 
she said, at last. 

"I don't believe it could be.*' She was silent, and Mark, 
gifted with that tact which is so rare in a man, guessed she 
feared she had talked too freely with a stranger to conform 
to the conventionalities of the outer world, and took the 
best means of reassuring her. "A few times in my life — 
a very few times — mis has happened to me as it has now, 
when I have felt immediately a common interest, a sense 
of camaraderie and good fellowship ; and in each instance 
it has resulted in a very strong friendship. So you see how 
pleasant it must be, as one knocks about in the world, to 
come upon what I call kindred spirits. Won't you tell me 
what you were going to say when you said 'unless' ? " 

"We have always lived so far apart and are so different 
— I was thinking how impossible it is that we could have 
anything in common, as you said, unless, perhaps, the one 
thing — that we may both have ideals." 

"I think that is just it. Miss Joyful." 


Again she looked squarely in his eyes with that dear, 
searching gaze. Mark felt a sense of satisfaction in the 
thought that, whatever his failings, he need not turn away 
from it. "Now you 're thinking something more," he said, 
"^'Tell me again, won't you?" 

She smiled, and then laughed outright. "First we are 
old, and then we are young, and so we keep changing. I 
was thinking how real those monsters of the deep used to 
be to me, and then all at once I wondered what you would 
have been if you had not fought them — if you had lost your 
ideals, or hadn't cared. Would you have been sailing 
with us now ? Would we have felt as if we had known you, 
or would grandmother have asked you to stay — and would 
grand-daddy have cared to talk with you all the evening 
long? Somehow I fed as if it all would n't have happened, 
and yesterday would seem only yesterday and not years ago, 
and I had grown up since then." 

While they talked, Mark had succeeded in getting some 
characteristic sketches of her in his book, and was pleased, 
but not satisfied. He turned leaf after leaf, and still 
scratched away. She gave no heed to his occupation, but 
seemed wholly wrapped in her thoughts. 

"Again you're right. Miss Joyful, — perfectly so. For 
one thing, I would n't have been a disconsolate, tired fellow 
tramping along the road where I met you, and — a good 
many things would have been different, more than I can 
tell you." 

"What would you have been ?" 

"Ah, I don't like to think. I 'm afraid I 'd have been — 
Let's not consider that — Shall we?" 

Joyful looked off over the sea, shading her eyes with her 


hand. "See how far away we are now. Our pier is only 
a little white speck behind us, and grandfather is tacking 
toward the shore." Then she turned upon Mark like a 
sudden breeze. "Mr. Thorn, I 'm glad you did fight them. 
I hope if they come again you '11 fight more." 

"That I will," said Mark, heartily. "Your monsters 
are very real things. You 'd never dream it was for that 
I came to your quiet little cove — that I must fight battles 
here. Now, you see, I Ve told you a secret, and yet I never 
saw you until last evening. When I sat in the peacef ulness 
of your grandfather's little cottage I was fighting them by 
putting everything sordid and mean away from me. We 
can't always do that, when we 're out in the world, with 
your monsters. Miss Joyful." 

Then they were silent for a time, while she watched the sun- 
light quivering on the water, and dreamed. Mark's thoughts 
were full of another face — a face of which he knew every line. 
He began a drawing of it opposite the spirituelle glance he 
had just traced of one of Joyful's moods, and then, almost 
petulantly, drew his pencil many times across it, obliterating 
the lines, and turning over a leaf, made there a pretty, finished 
drawing of the remembered face. 

He wondered what Louise would do with this child if she 
could get hold of her. "She would begin by admiring her 
immensely," he thought, "and then would try to remodel 
her after some mental pattern of her own, and say she was 
educating her. She would take this wild wood bird, that 
flies toward its Creator with the morning light — that rises 
above the world and soars in divine ether, and smooth down 
its feathers, and dip its wings, and tie it to her own little 
stake by a string only so long as her own mental reach.. She 


would fence her about with a paling of conventional poles so 
high she could not see over them, so close she could not see 
through them, and then she would say: 'Now, little one, 
don't flutter and beat your heart out — if you have a heart, 
I 'm going to stay here and educate you and feed you with 
a nice little preparation I Ve made all myself, from most 
wholesome ingredients that I Ve gathered with great care 
and labor. In India, among the Brahmins, and in China, 
among the Buddhists, and in Turkey, among the Moham- 
medans, and even among the ancient Clialdeans have I 
searched for this. It is more wholesome than the food God 
— if there be a God — gives his children; so open your 
mouth, little one.' " 

"Mr. Thorn," said Joyful, waking from her dream, "are 
you making a fimny picture?" 

Mark laughed heartily. "I will let you see this in a 
minute, then you can judge for yourself," he said, and she 
relapsed contentedly into her thoughtful mood. 

"Mr. Thorn," she said at last, "I was thinking of what 
you said a moment ago about monsters being out there, and 
the peacefulness in our little cove. Perhaps that was what 
mother meant when she used to say: 'Id nous sonunes 
heureux, Petite.' " 

"I have no doubt of it." 

"I suppose I will have to go out into it all, sometime. 
I can't always have grandfather and live here, and — even 
if I could — " she stopped, and when Mark looked up there 
were tears in her eyes. 

"Don't think of it. Miss Joyful. Enjoy the peace and 
happiness while you have them, and we '11 hope that, when 
the time comes, the great world will deal gently with you.'* 



" It is n't that I *m afraid. You may think me very strange, 
but — " she glanced back at the old man, who was watching 
the wind and bringing the boat in to skirt the shore, and 
leaned toward Mark and spoke in lowered tone. ''I often 
long to go off somewhere — to see people and know about 
them, and how other girls do — and hear music, and see 
pictures, and learn to do something — I don't know what 
— but—" 

"I know things you can do now, that few young ladies 
can. You can row a boat — can't you?" 

"Oh, yes, but then—" 

"You can make butter, and make a garden — and — " 

"Oh, of course — but I mean make something beautiful." 

"Your butter is beautiful. Miss Joyful." 

"But that 's something to be eaten up. You know what 
I mean — something to last — now you are laughing at 


"I'm not. I'm only thinking how short a time your 
butter would last if I lived there, and how much you would 
have to make." 

She laughed too. "I 'd make you do the churning, and 
then you 'd get no time for your pictures. Then you 'd 
know how I feel sometimes. Now may I see it ? " 

Not wishing to awaken self -consciousness in her by allow- 
ing her to see the other pages, he shifted his seat and crossing 
to her side held the book before her. "There ! Would you 
call that a funny picture ? " he asked. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and then "Oh!" again. "How 
beautifully you work ! Is this some one you know, or have 
you made it out of your mind ? Must — must you have 
ideals to make one like this?" 


^' I '11 answer all your questions when you tell me if you 
like her." 

"Ah, that 's not fair." She leaned over and looked care- 
fully and long at the face, while he still held the book, un- 
willing to relinquish it to her hand. At length she said, 
lifting her eyes to his : "I can't see why you should look as 
if you were making something ridiculous whan you were 
making this, whether it 's from your mind, or whether it 's 
some one you know." 

"Did I look so?" 

"Yes. And if you should look so when you were 
making a picture of me or of my grandfather, I would n't 
like it. If your ideals make you look so when you 
work, I don't believe I 'd care to have them, after all." 

"I know a writer who jots down ideas which occur to him, 
which he does n't wish to forget, in a little book. He calls 
it making notes. That is the way I use these little drawings 
I make in this sketchbook. They are my notes. Now, 
tell me, did I look as if I were making something ridicu- 
lous when I was making my other notes, before I did this 

"I didn't think of it, but I guess not. If you had, I 
should have noticed it." 

"Why?" he asked, closing the book, and slapping the 
palm of one hand with it. 


He laughed. "That 's such a decisive and final 'because' 
one would think you 'd given an excellent reason." 

She laughed merrily with him. "I have. It's all the 
reason you '11 get, too." 

"Very well, that settles it. Now, look at this again." 


He hdd the book open before her. "Tell me — do you 
think she is pretty ? " 

"Why — I think — " she looked searchingly at him. 

"Ah, you can't tell by looking at me, you must look at 
the drawmg." 

"Why — I think — " She glanced down, then sud- 
denly raising her eyes, and looking into his very soul, she 
asked, "Do you love her? Is she a real person?" 

Mark leaned his elbow on his knee and his head in his 
hand, still holding the book before her and gazed off on 
the sea. "That's a question I can't answer, the first 
is — "he said gently, "I can the second. Yes, she 's a real 
person; at least I think she is. Sometimes she seems un- 

"I ought n't to have asked that question, ought I ? I 'm 
sorry. They don't ask such questions out there, do they ? " 

"Do you mean out in the world, as you call it?" 


"No — hardly ; but you need n't mind what they do out 
there. You 're not there, and here you may ask any ques- 
tions you please." 

"I only asked because I did n't wish to say anything you 
would n't — that would n't be pleasant to hear said of any- 
body one loved — but then — it would n't make any dif- 
ference to you what I might say. You're only amusing 
yourself, and I — " 

"No, Miss Joyful. I am in earnest. I wish to know 
what you think about this face. Go on." 

" It need n't make any difference, anyway, whatever I may 
say. I could only guess and make up about it, as I make up 
stories and fancies. I don't know any real people to judge 


by, only people in my books, and those in my mind that I 
make up as I do my dragons and monsters." 

"Miss Joyful," he said, pleadingly, " tell it just as you 
would if you had seen it, and had never heard of me. Nothing 
will hurt me that you can say, and after you are through 
I will tell you a secret about it that will interest you." 

"All right," she said joyously. "I like to make up about 
pictures of people, just as I do about Mary Queen of Scots, 
or Marie Antoinette. Let 's see — " she bent over the face 
earnestly. " I like queens. Let 's pretend first that she 's 
a queen — shall we ? " 

"Yes, yes. That 's right." 

"And we'll pretend that she's very beautiful — ?" 

"That's for you to tell me, you know." 

"Well, queens always are beautiful, so we '11 have her so — 
at least when she forgets she 's a queen, and loves some one 

"Some one else than who ?" 

"Why — than herself." 

Mark was inwardly convulsed. She caught a glimpse of 
the satirical smile she had seen before, and stopped. "Go 
on. Miss Joyful," he said. 

"You look that way again." 

"I was only wondering what she would say if she could 
hear you say that. You see, she calls herself an altruist — 
one who loves the whole world — you understand — every- 
body in it ? She says that 's her religion." 

"Oh — then — let me see. Do you mean she loves the 
whole world, and nobody in particular?" 

"Yes — maybe that is it." 

" Oh. Then we '11 pretend she 's very wonderfully beauti- 


ful when she 's loving somebody in particular ; and not just 
herself and the whole world. And we '11 pretend she has 
a look no one can understand, but that when one sees her 
one becomes fascinated by her, and thinks of her day and 
night — in the old days, in Greece, you know, people thought 
there were beings like that — and follows her wherever 
she goes, and although she likes it she never sees them, only 
now and then in a sideways kind of a glance, but that she 
always looks away off at the whole world. And we '11 
pretend she wears long white robes like a Greek goddess, 
and that one goes down on one's knees when she passes, and 
catches at her robes, and kisses them, and cries out, 'Don't 
love the whole world, Queen, love me, love me,' but she 
only puts out her hand and gathers her robe aroimd her, 
and is very calm and cold, as if she were carved all out of 
beaut-if ul white stone, so that she could walk through the fire 
wicliout burning, and her lips curve a little more than they do 
here, and she says, 'What are you, that I should love you in 
particular ? Don't you see that I must love all these mil- 
lions and millions who are looking at me, and that I am a 
queen ? ' and all the world is so wide and so far away that — " 

Mark took the book away from her with a laugh, and 
buttoned it inside his coat. 

"You said I might say anything I pleased about it, and 
I 'm not through. Does she make every one do what she 
wishes, and think what she wishes, whether they wish to or 

Mark nodded. "Not quite every one. Almost." 

"Now what's the interesting secret you were going to 
tell about it ? I 'm not through, but you 've taken the book 
away, and that ends the story." 


''It is this. The lady whom this drawing is like, is one 
of those terrible monsters you were telling about. So you 
see, they're not always ugly. Sometimes they're very 
beautiful, as she is." 

"Why should you speak of her so?" said Joj^ul, pity- 
mgly, opening wide her eyes. 

" Because she can quietly and charmingly tear down more 
ideals in a single evening's chat than the most hideous 
monster man ever set eyes on — and — as to fighting her — 
It 's hard to fight so beautiful a creature." 

"Yes." Joyful spoke thoughtfully and slowly. "I sup- 
pose the only thing to do with such a monster, would be to 
disarm it so it couldn't fight." 

"Again you are a wise little woman, Miss Joyful. Where 
do you get your wisdom?" 

She smiled and shook her head. "I'm not talking to 
appear wise — and — do you know — I like to talk to you 
better than any one I 've ever seen since father and mother 
were with me — only for one thing." 

What she said pleased Mark. He had become so 
strongly interested in her that he was even touched with 
a little pleasant vanity at her frank confession. "And 
what is the one thing that spoils it, Miss Joyful ?" he said 

"Oh, I didn't feel it imtil after you made that picture." 

"I don't know what I did. I wouldn't have this hour 
spoiled for me by the thought of anything not pleasant to 
you. Miss Jo)rful ; tell me what it is as frankly and freely 
as you would have done before I made it. Won't you?" 

"It wasn't the picture, Mr. Thorn — please don't think 
that. I don't know what it was — unless — " 



"Don't stop at 'unless.'" 

"Why — perhaps it was the look you had — as if — 
Oh, I can't tell you. It was nothing." 

"Ah, no. It was something. What was it?" 

"Tell me. Out in the world do people talk together all 
nicely, and yet be laughing at each other all the time with 
that kind of a feeling underneath?" 

"With what kind of a feeling. Miss Jo)rful?" 
With a kind of a despising feeling." 
Oh, Miss Jo)rful, don't put such an interpretation on it." 
I don't mind being laughed at when there is anything 
funny, you know, and no doubt there often is. Grand- 
father does it. But I would mind the other." 

"Don't, don't. Miss Joyivl. I could never have such a 
feeling toward you." 

" Or toward any one else ? " 

" Out in the world there are often things that deserve such 
a feeling, but remember, we are n't there, and I shall never 
bring anything here that does n't belong here." 

"Unless something calls it up." 

Mark winced inwardly. "No, not if I can help it, even 
then. Now tell me how you could possibly think I was 
having such a feeling toward you." 

"It is when you call me wise. I don't like it. It would 
be all right for me to call you wise. You have had a chance 
to become so — but — for me — you know it is impossible, 
so why should you say it ? and when you do, how could 
you help feeling that way imdemeath ? " 

Mark smiled. He was on the point of saying, as before, 
"You are a wise little woman," but checked himself in time. 
" Miss Joyful, is n't there a place in the Bible — no doubt you 


know it better than I — where the wisdom of wise men is 
called folly, and little children are called wise?" 

" Yes." Her face lighted. " Is it something about things 
being hidden from the wise and being revealed unto babes ? 
Very well. I am willing to be one of the babes — if that is 
what you mean." 

"Joy, I calc^ate 't we'd better be startin' for home. 
How is it, Mr. Thorn, where 'bouts would you like us to 
leave you?" 

"Oh, anywhere along here, Mr. Heatherby, where I shall 
be within walking distance from Woodbury Center." 

"Well, I c'n put you off ten miles f'm there, 'r I c'n put 
you off five miles f'm there, 'r I c'n take you back to the 
cove 'nd give you a good supper, 'nd ye'd be two miles 
f'm ye'r boarding house." 

"All right," Mark laughed. "I will return with you, but 
forego the supper, and walk through the woods to my 
boarding house, if that will suit you." 

"That '11 suit me — only I don't intend to forego my sup- 
per; do you, Joy? I'd a leetle rather put right back f'm 
here without stoppin' to land an3nvhere, f 'r it 's blowin' up 
a leetle cold, 'nd it '11 be colder still 't sundown. Joy, had n't 
ye better put on ye'r bunnit?" 

"I love to feel the breeze, grand-daddy. I 'm not a bit 

"Well, we '11 get back sooner 'n we came. I had to tack 
c'nsiderable to get out here at all. East wind; 't means 
rain to-morrow." 

"Then I 'm glad we had our sail to-day," said Mark. 

Mr. Heatherby shifted his sail and turned about, and 
then sat down to enjoy the quick run before the wind 


Mark drew out his book and began a sketch 6f the old 
man's head, as he sat opposite him at Toyful's side, while 
she, with pleased adnJSTn, watched L likeness grow. 

"I wish I could do that," she said. 

"No doubt you could, after a while, if you tried." But 
she shook her head, and continued to watch in silence, 
wliile he chatted with her grandfather. 

They were soon at the little pier where they sat and 
waited, while the old man took care of his boat, and Mark 
added a few finishing touches to the head he was penciling. 

"Now, do you like it?" he said, holding it out to her. 

"Oh, yes, yes! Can we show it to grandmother?" 

He took his knife and carefully cut the leaf from the book. 

"Would you like to have this?" he asked. 

"Oh, Mr. Thorn, did you make it for me? Don't you 
want it yourself?" 

"I made it for you, if you care for it. It doesn't quite 
please me. I was too absent-minded. To make a really 
good likeness one must have complete concentration. One 
can't do it and be thinking of something else." 

" But I am glad to have this, Mr. Thorn, and I think it 
was good of you to make it for me." 

"And did I look in that objectionable way while I made 
it, Miss Joyful?" 

"No,no ! Youdid 'nt. Oh,Ihope, Mr. Thorn, I haven't 
said — I am sorry I said — " 

"Ah, but you have said, and I am glad you said — and 
I hope you will say again whatever you please to say, and 
never stop to think whether you shall or shall not. Miss 
Joyivd, when you look at this, remember only the pleasant 
things about this sail, as I shall. And remember this also, 


that you have helped me in my fight; will you ? And so 
regret nothing you may think you have said, and be glad. 
I may leave this place in a few da3rs, and I may stay long, 
but I will never forget." He looked pleasantly into her 
face, and their eyes met. 

"Thank you, I will. I don't quite understand all — I 
wish I did — but I will try to believe what you say." 

*'No, you may not quite understand. You couldn't, 
without having been out there — as you call it, and I am 
glad you have not." 

"What ye got, Joy?" said the old man, coming up and 
looking over Joyful's shoulder. "Well, weU, well ! Caught 
on the fly, so to speak." He took out his glasses and care- 
fully adjusted them. "Now give it to me and we '11 have 
a look at it and then pass criticism. Well, well ! That's 
Grand-daddy Heatherby, wrinkles and all." 

"Oh, Grandfather! Be careful. Don't let the wind 
blow it away.. It 's mine. Grandfather." 

" Your grandfather ? Course it is. Who said it wan't ? " 

They walked slowly across the sands and up the crooked 
little path. At the top of the blufif, Mark removed his hat, 
and looked ofif on the sea. Thin clouds were rolling over 
the edge of the horizon. Their pleasant day was past. 
The Sim was making gold the sky behind the dark woods, 
as they took their way through the pasture lot, and subtle, 
sweet odors of spring floated about them. A pink mist of 
crab-apple blossoms hung on the edge of the wood, and a 
bird note sweetened the stillness. A spell of witchery 
seemed over them, and over the world. They did not speak, 
but walked up the long slope in silence. Jo)rful swung her 
bonnet in her hand, and her rapt face bore no cloud. Her 


glorious color, half-smiling lips, and clear eyes — lighted 
from within — and the old man's cordial gra^ of the hand 
as they parted at the gate, left a pleasant feeling around 
Mark Thorn's heart as he walked away. 

"You Tl bear us in mind, and look in on us sometimes," 
said Mr. Heatherby, and Mark was glad. 

"This is certainly a charmed spot," he said to himself, 
as he took his way through the darkening lane. 



" Like as a ship, that through the ocean wyde 
Directs her course unto one certaine cost, 
It met of many a counter wynde and tyde, 
With which her winged speed is let and crost, 
And she herseife in stormie surges tost ; 
Yet making many a horde and many a bay, 
Stili winneth way, ne hath her compasse lost ; 
Right so it fares with me in this long way 
Whose course is often stayed, yet never is astray." 

— The Faerie Qtteene. 

That evening, by the light of a lamp, Mark removed 
a portion of the things from his tnmi:, whistling softly as he 
worked; and soon had reduced his painfully neat apart- 
ment to a scene of the wildest disorder. Poor Mrs. Somers' 
hair would have untwisted itself from its tight knot and 
stood on end with horror, could she have looked in on him, 
as he rose and stood amid the confusion with evident satis- 

"There!" he exclaimed, "I feel more at home." He 
kicked a pair of riding boots under the bed. "They may 
as well lie there. I sha' n't ride much here," he said. 

At last he took up a piece of board and opening a box of 
dusty pastels began to lay in a girl's head, working very 
slowly, and keeping up the continuous low whistle. "I'll 
try monochrome first and use color later," he thought. 



Two little lines formed between his eyes, and creased deeply 
into his forehead, and the shadows of the lamp light made 
them look deeper still. Now and again he placed the board 
in the light, leaning against the glass of the bureau, and 
walked back — softly whistling — when the lines in his 
forehead smoothed themselves and the brows lifted; now 
and again they would form and the brows fall as he worked 
and whistled, and the face grew dreamily like the one he 
had been studying all the afternoon. 

Suddenly a harsh clangor crashed through the room. 
"For Heaven's sake ! I didn't know I was directly over 
that awful piano." The strains of "Affection's Offering 
Waltz" were tumultuously reverberating through the little 
j>arlor and pervading the halls and Mark's room with tri- 
umphant assertiveness. Mr. Somers was right. "Jane 
could play the piano like a steam ingine." 

Mark turned his drawing to the waU, hastily dusted the 
crayon from his hands, using his one towel for the purpose, 
and making it look as if he had wiped all the complexion 
from a full-blooded African on its knotty surface, snatched 
up his hat, and left the place. The air was chill, and button- 
ing his coat to the chin, he thrust his hands deep in its 
pockets and strode rapidly away. He would get out of reach 
of the sound of that piano, if he had to take Heatherby's 
boat and put out to sea. 

Rapt in thought, he walked aimlessly, taking little note of 
direction. The streets of the village were dimly lighted. 
Now and then people passed him like shadows in dreams. 
Presently the notes of a hymn simg by several voices came 
to him, soimding sweetly through the darkness, and simul- 
taueouslv an echo of the words he had heard at Elizabeth 


Drew's door in the early morning — " Will you be at choir 
practice this evening? Jo3^ul says she will be there." 
Unconsdously he quickened his steps in the direction from 
which the soimd came. 

He remembered Jane Somers' remark at the supper table, 
that "The 'piscopals were going to have service that even- 
ing, 't she believed they was more 'n half Cath'lic anyway, 
with their Saints' da3rs 'nd all," and that " Joj^ul Heatherby 
would surely be there, she bein' so dreadfully religious, 
her ma's father bein' a 'piscopal minister, 'nd all, " and that 
"that Than Stoddard would be there too, so 't he could see 
her home." 

Mrs. Somers had opined that, "If Than Stoddard kep' 
on doin 's he been doin' 't Elizabeth Drew 'd be wearin' 
moumin' 'fore the summer was over." And Mr. Somers 
had remarked that, "He see Jack Stoddard talkin' with 
his brother over in their father's north field 's he drove home 
from Willoughby Junction that afternoon, 'nd he guessed 
mebby he 'd come home now to stay 'nd behave himself 'nd 
help Than out 's he 'd ought to, 'nd more 'n likely he 'd have 
somethin' to say 'bout who sh'd see Joy Heatherby home." 

So, pleasantly interested and amused at this lifting of 
the curtain upon the drama of the village stage, Mark 
joined the company of the devout ones, and entered the 
little church. He seated himself in one of the pews and 
looked quietly about. Of the dramatis personam only the 
radiant young woman he had seen talking with Nathanad 
in the morning appeared. Evidently she had decided to 
come after all. She sat quite still, with her head slightly 
bowed and her profile toward him, before the small pii>e 
organ built in at one side of the chancel. Her hair glowed 


warmly in the light thrown on it from the reflector lamp 
above her. As his eyes grew used to the dimness, he saw 
Nathanael, in the black garb of the choir, seated in the 
shadow, with his eyes fixed on her face. "Mrs. Somers 
makes a mistake,'' thought Mark. But where was Joyful ? 
Looking again about the church, he felt a distinct sense of 
disappointment at not seeing her. 

It was early. The choir had ceased their practice, and 
there was a hush of waiting as the small number of worship- 
ers gathered. A yoimg man saimtered in and dropped into 
a pew across the aisle from him. Mark saw Nathanael 
glance that way and move uneasily in his seat. Then a 
small pointed door on the farther side was pushed open from 
within, and four young women in black capes and flat caps 
entered and moved to their seats near the organ. Joj^ul 
was one of them. She looked up and exchanged a smile 
with the organist, who passed her a hymn book open. The 
rays of the same light that glowed on Elizabeth's hair shone 
on her face, and she looked out over the church with much 
the same expression in her eyes as when she was gazing on 
the sea. Suddenly a flash of recognition lightened them, 
and a wave of color swept over her face, as she dropped her 
glance quickly upon her open book, and Mark saw the young 
man across the aisle gazing at her ; but she did not once 
agam look out over the congregation. Studying thus the 
faces of those in whom he had so newly become interested, 
the short service was ended ere he was aware, and people 
began moving past him. 

Mark loitered, hoping to exchange greetings with Na- 
thanael, and the young man across the aisle loitered also, 
walking down the side toward the choir seats. When Joy- 


ful appeared, Mark saw him greet her warmly and possess 
himself of her hymn book and shawl. She turned and 
waited for Elizabeth and Nathanael to join them, and then, 
the rector came from the vestry, walking with a quick step. 
As Jo)rful and the young man passed Mark, she did not guess 
whose eyes scanned her face. She was Ustening to the 
rapid speech of the man at her side. Nathanael followed, 
and as Mark bade him "Good evening,'* he looked up with 
pleasant recognition, and asked him how he liked his 
quarters, and introduced him to the rector, who in turn 
repeated his name to his wife and Elizabeth. A few kindly 
words were exchanged between them, and inquiries made 
regarding his stay, the rector hoping he might see him often, 
and they all passed out together. 

As Mark walked on in the darkness he saw Joyful and her 
companion lingering, and heard Nathanael say, ''Waiting, 
Jack?" and Jack's reply, "Yes, Than, I'll take the girls 
home. You need n't trouble yourself." "You 'd better put 
that shawl around Joy. The night 's chilly, Jack," he heard 
Nathanael say, and saw him take Elizabeth's arm. Then 
the four walked off together. 

Mark saimtered slowly houseward, thinking — thinking. 
He felt that he was ever pondering and getting nowhere these 
days. " ' Stop trifling, Mark, and go to work,' " he said to 
himself. "Well, I suppose Louise knows what she means; 
I don't. This dreaming and striving — is it trifling? 
When I taught, she said I was trifling away my time; 
now that I have given up my position, she thinks I'm 
trifling more than ever. If I took up some vagary in art and 
carried it to an extreme imtil the startled world should cry 
my name from the housetops, she might call that success. 


My picture of dawn, the only thing she ever praised, the 
poorest thing I ever hung on a wall, all one purple blotch — 
she liked it because it attracted attention. There was al- 
ways a crowd around it, wondering what on earth the artist 
meant by it, when he did n't know himself — God help him 
— pretending to admire it because they could n't imderstand 
it — but — pity their souls ! no doubt it 's human to like 
mystery and run in herds. The little girl was right. 
Louise loves power." He foimd himself laughing alone out 
there in the darkness. "I would give a hundred dollars if 
Louise could have heard that, 'So cold she could walk 
through fire and not be biuned' — no, nor melted, either. 
But she is — I declare it — she's a glorious creature. 
And there it is. I must take up with some kind of a fad, 
and make a hit. — Nothing short of the homage of the whole 
world will content her. But she 's worth it. She 's a mag- 
nificent being. 

"'Mark Thorn, work for art alone. Pay no attention 
to the critics — they don't know anything. First, last, 
always be an artist.' Very well, that 's not bad — no, it 's 
the only thing. He knew what I needed, that old teacher 
of mine. And then my blessed mother's last words : ' Mark, 
never degrade your talents by pandering to an- imworthy 
motive. Be true to the best that is in you, my son. Be 
true to your God. Be true to my hopes of you, Mark.' 
My God, what a mother she was ! If she were with me, I 
coidd hold out; but I declare, I 'm . discouraged. 'Stop 
trifling, get to work' — am I not always working ? — 'and 
bring the world to your feet.' That 's it. The world, the 
world, always the world. And my reward ? I should have 
the queen of Joyfid's dream picture to be mine. Ah, it 's 


worth striving for — yes — if, when all 's done, she does n't 
toss me over for some new whim." 

When he reached Mrs. Somers' the piano was still. The 
lamp burned in his room as he had left it. He sat himself 
down, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and his head 
drooped upon his breast. His lank form stretched half 
across the room and his feet rested upon the articles he had 
thrown from his trunk. Soon he roused himself, and takmg 
up his drawing, set it in the Ught where Joyful^s dreamy 
eyes looked out at him from an indiscriminate mist. ^'I '11 
make this as ideal as possible. I can't make it more sc than 
she is," he said. Then he thought of Elizabeth Drew's 
head glowing out of the obscurity, and decided to become 
a regular attendant at evening service until he had it, and 
grimly wondered how Louise would like it if he made a 
specialty of red-headed girls. 

The particular red-headed girl in question was just bidding 
Nathanael good-bye at her own door. " I 'm glad you have 
decided as you have," she was saying. 

"And I 'm glad you did n't hold to your determination not 
to go out this evening. I needed this talk with you. I 
suppose there 's never a moment when, somewhere on this 
earth, some woman is not doing some man or other good. 
That seems the way the best of us are made to be worth 

"Nathanael! " Elizabeth put out her hand and touched, 
very lightly, the sleeve of his coat. It was an involuntary 
movement, prompted by a loving impulse, and as poplar 
leaves quiver to the lightest breath, so every nerve of his 
being responded to the touch. 

He restrained himself from taking the hand in his. What 


had he for her ? He, whose life had been spent for others, 
had nothing to offer the woman he loved. So he stood, 
awkwardly waiting for her to continue, and as she searched 
for just the word she wanted, he bent and kissed the fascinat- 
ing little combination of ribbon and lace she wore upon her 
head, while she spoke on, imaware of the secret homage. 

"Nathanael, I believe I '11 scold you a little." 

" That 's a fearful threat. I think I '11 run." But instead 
he folded his arms and leaned against the door post. 

"Don't disparage yourself. I can't believe it is right. I 
admit Jack 's a brilliant chap, but does that in any way 
militate against you? I think self-depredation is a hin- 
drance to a man. It gives him a faint heart. It makes him 
shrink backward when he ought to be pressing forward. I 
declare I will not hear you tell of what Jack is and what 
he can do. Can't you see that is neither here nor there, as 
far as you are concerned?" 

"Can't I see? Yes, Elizabeth, yes, go on." 

" Oh, that 's all. I just want you to think highly of your- 
self. You have certain God-given power — every man 
has, in some degree — but you more than many, and because 
it is God-given you have no right to belittle it — no man 
has. To depreciate one's self takes the buoyancy out of 
life. To feel competent is to feel strong. Good night." 

She gave him her hand, and he held it an instant closed 
warmly in his, but again the words that rose to his lips from 
his inmost heart he would not let himself utter, so he spoke 
lamely other words. "You are right, I know it, yet it's 
— it 's easier for a man to work for some one else than for 
himself — it 's more inspiring — I mean it seems less — " 

"Oh, you great good fellow, you, go along ! If I could 


only see your self-esteem rise up and dominate your other 
faculties — Nathanael, take my advice. Harrow and 
cultivate your bump of self-esteem during this sunmier and 
see what a crop you can raise." 

He laughed. "No need now, Elizabeth; you have sowed 
the seed, and have harrowed it well in. Some day you 'U 
have to reap the crop in retribution. I 'm already beginning 
to feel the effects. It 's very pleasant for a man to have 
his self-esteem flattered, — I wish we had gone on to the 
end of the road with Joyful and my brother. He would n't 
have been so pleased with our company, though. Did you 
hear him dismiss me at the church door ? " He gave another 
Uttie laugh and paused, then continued, "I 'm troubled about 
them, especially about Joy ; Jack can take care of himself. 
Can't you help me?" 

Her whole figure became tense, but in the dusk he did 
not see. "How are you troubled? I don't quite compre- 

"I started to tell you this morning, but didn't. It's 
hard to compromise my own brother, but the truth is, I 
almost wish he had n't come home before sailing." 

Elizabeth thought she understood, but held her peace. 
"He is afraid his brother will win her away from him," she 
thought. "He might say what he had to say." This time 
she would not help him. 

"Joy is such a child yet — " he paused, and Elizabeth let 
him stumble on, "although in a way she is older than her 
years. I — I — have taken pains to see something of her 
of late, because — because — it seemed best — since you 
were not here to — to play older sister to her as you have 
always done. You see she should be saved from any 


entanglement — until — she has seen more of the world — 
even if it may cut across Jack's plans." 

"Have you any reason to know what Jack's plans are?" 
she said coldly. 

"He hasn't chosen me for his confidant." She stood 
silent. "Elizabeth, can't you see how it is? I don't 
want to speak against my brother — women are intuitive, 
and you — you are superior to us here; we have always 
looked up to you — I have — and to Joy you are every- 
thing. You can save her from any impetuous rashness — 
you imderstand." 

"I th in k I do." She spoke slowly. "But you overrate 
my power ; " she gave a short laugh. " And instead of look- 
mg up to me, have you forgotten the time you used to laugh 
at me because I could n't leap over the brook, and you could ? 
Yes, I understand. I '11 do all I can — it may not be much — 
for your sake. '* Again she said good night and turned away. 

"No, no. It's for her sake, for hers alone. Please 
remember that," he cried and walked away with a distinct 
sense of discomfiture, yet wondering in his big, innocent 
heart, why, while Elizabeth was saying to herself : — 

"I do believe the best of men can't be quite honest with 
themselves, or any one else, when it comes to matters of 
this kind. Does he think I am in love with him that he 
must try to cover the truth from me ? Humph ! Men are 
conceited, every one of them. For her sake alone !" 

She forgot the lecture she had just given him. She tossed 
the bonnet he had kissed on the table, dropped her gloves 
in a chair, took up the lamp which had been left burning 
for her, and went to her room. 

Nathanael was quite right in supposing Jack to have had 


enough of his company. He considered Joyful as his es- 
pecial property, by what right he could scarcely have told, 
other than that a child has to everything that strikes its 
fancy, from its brother's stick of candy to the moon in the 
sky , could he manage to snatch the one or pull down the other. 
Drawing her hand through his arm he swimg bravely oflf 
with her into the darkness, plunging into a rapid flow of 
talk oi his own plans and affairs. 

"You see, Joy, Than 's an awfully fine fellow, but he 's a 
bit slow. He needs a college education to get anywhere; 
but for me, I can't wait. I mean to be rich. I can't spend 
half my life plodding along here in New England over Greek 
and Latin. New England is n't any bigger 'n your thiunb 
nail, compared with the rest of the world. You can't know 
anything about it, shut up here in this cove, like a canary 
bird in a cage." 

But Joyful had grown suddenly older since she had seen 
Jack last. She had many ideas floating through her girlish 
brain, vague, to be sure, yet forming the nelul^ of true 
wisdom. Her resentment of his attitude toward her, and 
her instinctive perception of the difference between Jack 
and Mark Thorn and Nathanael were part of this very 
nebulss of spiritually discovered truth. She knew that 
out in the world the dragons and monsters of the deep that 
Mark Thorn was contending with would never even be 
perceived by Jack to have an existence. Nathanael might 
see them, but never Jack. His monsters would be grosser, 
perhaps, but less subtle and harder to kill. 

However, her joyous, wholesome nature remained as yet 
undisturbed by these vague stirrings within her, and Jack 
was certainly a handsome fellow who had played with her 


and domineered over her and patronized her after his big- 
boy fashion all her life. She was used to his t)rranny, and 
he to her little resentments and whirlwinds and scofi^gs. 
Her wit had ever been too much for him, but he could 
always soothe his feelings with the thought that she gloried 
in his strength, and he, after all, was her superior, and could 
have his own way with her when he chose, and by rights 
should have it. 

"I 'm going to get rich, Joy. A man isn't anything in 
this world without money. Let me see. How long is it 
since I saw you last ? Ten months, and I Ve cleared — 
just you guess how much I 've cleared since that time." 

"How can I ? I don't even know what you were doing." 

"Well, never mind, just you guess, that 's a good girl." 

"Why, you cleared — you cleared out, I know that much, 
and when you wrote home you cleared away a great big 
cloud of trouble about you ; I know that much more, and 
what else you cleared you must tell me." 

"Joy, I made five hundred dollars the first trip. Think 
of that, the first go-off ! Oh, I 'm safe enough. Next time 
I'll do better, because — " 

" Jack I That 's fine ! Now you can pay Nathanael back 
part of the money, can't you?" 

Jack winced. "Has Than been talking to you about 
it?" he asked pettishly. 

" You know he would n't do that ! You told me yourself. 
Don't you remember ? " 

"Oh yes, of coiirse; well it 's hard for girls to imderstand 
about money matters, but you see, Joy, if I pay this out, I 
sha' n't have any for investment next trip." 

"Oh. Where did you get the money for the first?" 


'' Borrowed that, of course, but that's all straight, and 
now I can make more, not having to borrow again. See ? " 

"Yes, Jack,— but— " 

"Look here, Joy. Than knows how 'tis. He 's an awfully 
good fellow." 

"Don't I know that? Everybody does. But he — he 
needs — " 

" Don't you worry. He knows he 's all right with me; we 
imderstand each other." He felt her hand sUpping from 
his arm, and he seized it and held it there. " Why, I ex- 
pect to help him through yet, more 'n likely. Did n't I tell 
you I left college just not to be a drag on him ? " 

She pulled her hand from his grasp. "Don't hold on to 
me like that, Jack* I like to swing my arms. You said so, 
yes — but — " 

"You are n't half glad to see me back after all this time. 
Why do you pidl away and keep saying, * Yes — but — ' ? " 
He seized her hand again and drew it tlyough his arm firmly. 

She laughed out merrily. "You act just as you used to 
when you were a boy, and think what I want does n't count. 
Of course I 'm glad to see you, Jack, — but — " 

"There you go again, butting away like a little goat. 
I really thought you would be proud of me. What 's the 

"Jack, you shall let go of my hand, and I will swing my 
arms, and walk by myself. As if I hadn't walked this 
road himdreds of times oftener than you, that I need to be 
helped along like a baby ! And Jack, sir, I 'm not a little 
girl any longer, I 'm a woman now, and must ' put away 
childish things.' Grandmother says so." 

"Whew ! All the girls I know take a turn at being yoimg 


ladies before they get to be women. You must have skipped 
that stage. Ladies don't go stamping along swinging their 
arms and quarreling." He laughed, and again caught her 
hand and drew her back, walking close beside her as before. 
"Don't you know, Joy, you belong to me, and we are 
sweethearts ? There, don't struggle and twist, and stamp 
your foot like a little wildcat; just listen now." 

She laughed at him then, but stopped struggling. Al- 
though vexed, she could not help responding to the domi- 
nation he had always exercised over her; but after a bit 
she grew grave and then gave a little, gentle sigh. She 
was thinking of the difference between Jack and Mr. Thorn, 
and although she tried in her loyal heart to frame excuses 
for him, the comparison was not good for the man at her 
side. Mark's tacit comprehension of her moods pleased 
her. Jack never had imderstood. He talked on and on, 
telling of his hopes and plans, and presently she laughed 
out again. 

"What are you laughing at, Joy?" 

"At you." 

"Why, what have I said now?" he asked indignantly. 

"You said a minute ago that I stamped my foot like a 
wildcat. Did you ever see one that stamped its foot, and 
looked like a little goat, and a canary bird in a cage ? You 
see how silly you are. Then you say I 'm not a lady, and 
now you say we are sweethearts. I would n't have such 
a sweetheart, if I were you. And then you said I ought to 
be prbud of you, just as if I were your mother and had 
brought you up. Aren't you silly?" 

"It 's your own fatilt, Joy. You change from one thing 
to another, like the witches they used to bum in the old 


da3rs. Here I 've come back just to have a good talk with 
you, and you find fault and laugh at me." 

She relented a little at his injured tone. "Then don't 
talk about being sweethearts. Jack, and I '11 listen. I am 
glad you came back, most of all for your father's sake and 

"Seems to me everything 's Than to-night. Anybody 'd 
think you thought the world 'n all of Than." 

"I do. Isn't he about the best man you ever knew?" 

" See here, Joy, has Than been makin' up to you since I Ve 
been gone?" 

" You must n't talk that way. I don't like it." 

He dropped her hand and moved away from her. 
"There, go your own way, and swing your arms, if you 
want to." 

"I don't. I want to walk with you like this." She 
slipped her hand again through his arm. " But you must n't 
talk about people making up to me. It doesn't soimd 

"Now, Joy, here we are at your home, and you have n't 
even said yet that you think I have done well, and I am 
doing it all for you. You are to be my little wife, Joy, 

She drew quickly away again. "Jack ! I 've never said 
that to you, and you know it." 

"Ah, but you will, Joy? I've alwa3rs meant that, you 
know." He came close to her side again and bent over her. 

"Oh, Jack ! Let things be in the old way. I liked it a 
great deal better so." 

"I can't, and I don't like it better so. See here. I've 
got to go away in a week, and be gone a long time, and some 


one may come and take you away from me. You 're grow- 
ing up, and how can things stay as they were ? " 

"I shall stay right here, and take care of grandfather 
and grandmother, and no one shall take me away from 
them, not even you. Jack." 

"But you do love me — now don't you, Joy?" 

"Of course I do, but I don't have to marry every one I 

He stooped suddenly and kissed her, and something in 
his manner made her tremble. She darted from him 
through the gate, and shut it quickly between them. 

"Why, what 's the matter, Joy?" He reached over the 
Uttle wicket barrier and held her there. 

"Jack !" she said, in a low voice, "I 'm not ready to say, 
yet. Let me go. You mustn't do this way." 

"I 'm coming to see you to-morrow, Joy, and you can say 
it then." 

"I '11 not say it — not fdr years — not to any one. Let 
1^6 go> Jack, it 's late, and — and — you must n't kiss me 
again, Jack, that way, ever." 

"But you do love me, Joy?" he still pleaded. 

"Yes, better, more 'n likely, than you do me, if there were 
any way of measuring love, so that 's all. Now let me go. 
Good night." 

"Joy, Joy. Wait a minute. Listen," he cried, as she 
escaped from his grasp and ran up the path. 

"No, no. Not now. Jack. Good night." 

"Oh, Joy ! To-morrow, then, Joy." But she was gone, 
and there was nothing for him to do but to take his way 
home in the darkness. 


joyful's ladye faire 

^ A lovely ladle rode him iaire beside, 
Upon a lowly asse more white than snowe ; 
Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide 
Under a vele, that wimpled was full low." 

— The Faerie Queene, 

The next morning was sullen and cloudy, but the weather 
had no effect on Joyf ul's gay spirits. As blithe as the birds, 
she sang as she clattered the milk pans, and chattered, now 
to her grandmother in the kitchen, now to the cat, and now 
to the hens in the yard that threatened to scratch out all 
the wild things in the small comer where she had set them. 

She had cried a little the night before, as she confided to 
her pillow that Jack was too bad to spoil all their good times 
by getting such silly notions in his head. She had cried 
harder still when she thought how she wished her mother 
was there. She could tell her all about it — she could n't 
tell her grandmother. 

But this morning she was happy. She was to spend the 
day with Elizabeth, who had said she had something pleas- 
ant for her to do, so she gayly sang, and hurried about her 
work, so as to walk over before the rain began. 

"I '11 be back before dark, grandmother, so don't worry, 
and don't take the trouble to send for me." 

"Take the umbrel', Joy, 'nd wear your rubbers. It'll 
be raining by evening, more 'n likely." 



As Joyful walked through the woods that spring mornings 
her thoughts recurred to her companion of the evening 
before. "He thinks I must do whatever he wants, whether 
I wish it or not." Then she laughed. "He may stay and 
visit with grandmother, if he comes to-day. I sha' n^t 
stay at home for him. He may hirnt me up, if he wants to 
see me so badly." Then she wondered, "What would 
Elizabeth say if she knew !" and her heart gave a quick, 
uncertain beat at the thought of the kiss he had given her. 

Elizabeth was scanning a magazine of the fashions to 
find a simple and becoming style in which to shape the 
pink dimity with which it was her intention to adorn 
Joyful for him she believed to be her lover. Her self- 
sacrifice was to be absolute and lovjng, and when she heard 
the gate swing to with a sharp click, she came and met the 
child haKway down the path and took her into her large, 
whole-sotded embrace. 

"You are so sweet and warm, Ladye Faire," said Joyful, 
kissing her, and at the same moment she thought again of 
Jack's kiss, and glanced in Elizabeth's face with an almost 
guilty feeling. Not for the world would she have her 
know what Jack had said and done, in her sweet, innocent 
shame. But soon the reckless Jack was forgotten, and she 
was trying on the pink dimity, and gazing with delighted 
eyes on the lace and ribbon trimmed muslin that was to be 
transformed into a maidenly gown for her summer's best. 

"Oh, Ladye Faire, how dear you are, and how good to 

"You can do most of the work on these yourself, Joy. 
The pink one needs very little change. Who would have 
thought her so near my size, mother?" 



"Thee is growing a great girl, Joyful," said Mrs. Drew. 
"Bring me the white one; I will take off the ribbon for 

So the two women shaped and cut, and Joyful chattered 
and sewed industriously, that rainy morning. The mild 
air was full of sweet spring odors, and they sat on the porch 
under the overhanging, vine-covered roof. A pair of blue- 
birds were creating their summer home under one comer 
of the porch eaves. The male, in his bright blue coat, 
sat on the tip of the pear tree and sang about it joyously, 
while his plain little wife did the work. 

Sometimes, for a moment, the clouds would break, and 
the simlight stream through the budding, rain-jeweled 
vines, scattering splashes, of gold over Elizabeth and Joyful, 
their work, and the porch floor ; then again the world would 
grow dark while low rumbles of thimder jarred the earth 
with mysterious quakings. During one of these threaten- 
ing moments, just as a heavy dash of rain began pelting 
down, Mark Thorn appeared before the gate. Elizabeth 
had gone within, and was nmning over some new music, 
while Jo}dtul, in the great rocker outside, sat with hands 
clasped behind her head, listening. 

"Oh, don't go by, Mr. Thorn, come in out of the rain," 
called Joyful, impulsively. 

"Thank you, I will, gladly — if I may." He swung 
rapidly up the path and in an instant was under the shelter- 
ing roof, shaking the raindrops from his coat. The blue- 
birds dashed out from the eaves With frightened whir as 
he loomed up tall and dark beneath them. He could have 
placed his hand in tlie nest from where he stood. "Poor 
little things. Now I have frightened them/' he said, 


placing his cx>Ior box and easel back against the wall and 
dropping into a chair. 

Elizabeth came out, and he rose. She remembered him, 
and spoke pleasantly. At the instant a peal of thimder 
crashed overhead, and the rain came down in a flood. Then 
Mrs. Drew's voice called from within, "Wouldn't thee 
better all sit inside, daughter? It will be chilly there." 
And thus was Mark Thorn introduced into that peaceful 

After that the clouds closed down heavily, and the steady 
rainfall held him a glad prisoner. They could not do other 
than urge him to remain to the noon meal, and although 
he protested a spring drenching would do him no harm, he 
could do no other than to accept and partake with pleased 

Mrs. Drew was one of those flowerlike elderly women 
whom young men always admire, to whom they love to 
pay their homage. With gentle deference he showed her 
the few sketches he had in his box, and he talked of art 
and artists, of music and musicians, while Elizabeth, with 
cheerful composure, continued her loving labor, cutting and 
planning, joining now and then in the conversation ; and 
Joyful, listening with wide eyes and parted lips, silently 
sewed on. Again the world seemed to her awakening soul 
to be growing larger, and her horizon line wider and farther 

Often had she listened to the chat of Mrs. Drew and 
Elizabeth, but to-day a new element was introduced. 
Mark Thorn had come to them with news of men and 
women of his world, men and women who were living and 
working, and helping to mold the taste and sentiment of 


the day in art and letters. He had quaint tales to tell of 
these — intimate tales of their ways, their eccentricities and 

JoyfuFs lore was all of the past, gathered from the books 
stored in that closet in her grandfather's cottage. She had 
a host of friends and acquaintances, all shadowy spirits 
who had lived first in the brains of poets and romancers of 
a bygone time, but very real to her. She held the creators 
of these beings in holy reverence, never dreaming that 
their like existed at the present day. Elizabeth had told 
her of Wagner and the German folklore he had embodied 
in his music. The tales of the "Nibelungenlied" and 
"Tannhauser" she knew well, and had taken the myths 
into her romantic little soul, having her own personal loves 
among them ; though not of this world, nor of the present 
day, they lived in her guileless heart and brain. The 
"Gentle ELnight" and "Ladye Faire" of Spenser's "Faerie 
Queene" and Chaucer's "Pilgrims" were her friends, and 
the little "Sisterkin" and "Gold Green Snakes" of Jean 
Paul Richter, she saw them in the sunset-gleaming ripples 
round her grandfather's boat, or in the long moonlit path 
on the sea on a calm summer evening. Oh, yes. She knew 
them all. She had read of "Undine" and "Graziella" in 
her mother's subtle French tongue. 

Of the world's sin and suffering she had a strange, un- 
worldly knowledge, and her spiritual high lights were so 
pure and clear they would have dazzled into blindness the 
conventional, near-sighted vision of ordinarily fed, starve- 
ling mortals, started in life from the public schools of our 
land. They might repeat the names of all the deities of 
the Norsemen, or the Greeks and Eg3rptians, a meaningless 


list, drearily droned over, but could they have looked on 
the furnishings of Jo3rful's mind, they would have found 
these beings seated on thrones of light, or riding the clouds 
at sunset, or driving before the blast on a winter's night. 

Now, listening this rainy day with eager interest to Mark 
Thorn's easy flow of talk, the modem and the old began to 
mix, in her half child's, half woman's consciousness, in a 
vague jumble of ideas, wherein the realities of the present 
seemed as visions which another day's experiences might 
sweep away, while the unrealities of her childish thoughts 
were the very foundation of things to her, on which she 
was building her present 

Elizabeth's musical advantages had been of the best, yet 
she had withal a quaint way of rendering simple things quite 
personal to herself. Mark soon discovered this imique 
charm, and led her on to play for him, with unconcealed 

" I 'm glad," he said, " that your German education has n't 
made you Germanesque. You treat your instnmient as 
if it were a sentient being." 

Elizabeth smiled. "I always do have that feeling, as 
if my piano were a creature that could suffer or be responsive 
to moods, and almost forget that it's a mere piece of 

Joyful had been so silent, in her comer by the window, 
that they had ceased to be aware of her presence. Now she 
laughed out with a merry note that made them all smile. 

"What is thee laughing at, child? Tell thy thoughts," 
said Mrs. Drew. 

"I was thinking how easy it would be for Ladye Faire 
to become an old heathen." 


"How so?" said Elizabeth, taking her work from her. 
"Come, to pay for that you must recite to us. An old 
heathen, indeed ! Joyful recites French very prettily," 
she added, turning to Mark. 

"Do, Miss Joyful, but explain first, how would your 
friend be an old heathen?" 

"I mean she could be. Did n't they make statues and 
btiild shrines, and then think those stone things were 
spirits, or had spirits in them, and worship them ? Ladye 
Faire thinks her piano has a soul in it. I can imagine her 
kneeling and holding her hands up this way before it as the 
peasants do before the shrines of the Blessed Virgin in 

"You naughty girl," said Elizabeth, laughing. "What 
do you know about them ?" 

"I have pictures of them in my books, that mother used 
to tell me about. Mr. Thorn, you said yesterday you 'd let 
me see you work sometime. Won't you make a picture 
of Elizabeth, while I look on? Your paints are here; I 
saw them when you opened your box." 

"Gladly I will." He turned to Elizabeth. "I promised 
Miss Joyful she might see me lay in a head sometime. Do 
you mind? We may not have a better chance, and the 
light is good." 

"I have no objection, certainly — only I would prefer 
you made mother your model, so I could watch you, too." 

"I 'U tell you what I 'd do if I were an artist, Mr. Thorn. 
I 'd make Elizabeth all in a white robe, simply dressed, like 
the lovely ^ Ladye Faire' who rode on a white palfrey with 
the 'Gentle ELnight' who was pricking o'er the plain." 
They all laughed. "I don't see anything fmmy in that." 


"There isn't, Miss Joytvl; but who was your lovely 

"She means the Lady Una in Spenser's 'Faerie Queene.' 
She has a silly way of calling me that." Elizabeth stroked 
Joyf Ill's hair lovingly. "Come, child — come, redte 
'L'Hirondelle' for us, while Mr. Thorn gets his things 

"I know your lovely 'Ladye Faire' on the white palfrey 
now, Miss Joyful, only for a moment I did not think of her. 
See, while I take out my colors, you repeat the poem, and 
then you may have all the say about this pictiure. I '11 
make it just as you wish it, if Miss Drew will be patient 
with us." 

"Oh, she will," said Joyfid, with confidence. Then she 
repeated with a delightfid accent the little poem in French 
which Elizabeth had asked for. 

Mark smiled as he thought how completely he had for- 
gotten he was in an isolated little New England village 
several miles from any railroad and from all city advantage. 
Here, where farming and fishing were the only occupations, 
combined with storekeeping and exceedingly primitive 
carpentering, enough to supply the limited needs of the 
place, the atmosphere of this home seemed for the moment 
quite incongruous, as he listened to the little maid recite 
her French, and felt the inspiration of Elizabeth's music 
and the charm of Mrs. Drew's high-bred voice and man- 
ner. They seemed like stars shot out of another sphere 
into a queer little drowsy, workaday, gossiping world. 
As he thought of this, only Nathanael alone seemed to stand 
out from among the rest as kindred in spirit to these, he 
and grandfather and grandmother Heatherby. 


Thus, as Mark worked, his mind was busied with other 
matters than his paints and brushes, vaguely wondering 
what Joyful was destined to become. If these should be 
taken from her, what would the child do, doubly isolated, 
both by her nature and rearing from those around her? 
What did she do in the long New England winters with only 
those two old people, when Elizabeth and her mother were 
not there ? To be sure, he had seen her singing in the choir 
of the little chiurch — there might be others who were 
interested in her ; but his moment's speech with the rector 
and his wife had shown him that their interest would be of 
the most perfunctory and conventional sort. He was cer- 
tain they wotdd have as little comprehension of the child's 
natiure as wotdd the church steeple. And Mark, in his 
genuine, kindly sympathy was right. Although Joyftd, 
with her imaginative mind, was never lonely, even when 
most alone, yet, were she thrown out of her safe little 
anchorage here, as she must inevitably be sometime, what 
would the cruel old world do with her, or rather, what would 
she do with it ? 

Mark remembered the tearful glance she threw at her 
old grandfather, when they sat in the boat, as she spoke of 
wishing to do something real, something that would last. 
Could it be that premonitions of the future were already 
troubling her? 

"Now, Miss Joyfid — " he said, holding his sketch block 
at arm's length. "Come here and show me how you want 
this." He glanced at Elizabeth, as she sat before the piano. 

"Oh, but I wouldn't like this dark dress, would you? 
I think she was dressed all in white under her mantle, and 
a long sleeve hanging down." 


"No doubt you are right, Miss Joyful." 

Elizabeth laughed. "You shall have anything you like, 
child. You Ve worked steadily enough; we '11 put the sew- 
ing all by and play awhile. What shall I put on ? " 

Joyful clasped her hands rapturously. "Oh, put on the 
white tableau dress you wore in the pictures for the 
Church. You know — " 

So Elizabeth obediently went and retiuned in the "white 
tableau dress, " as Joyful called it, and Mark was satisfied. 
She looked, indeed, a veritable "Una," such as might that 
moment have stepped, in red and white English beauty, 
from the old poet's brain. 

"Look, Mr. Thorn, I said she was the 'Ladye Faire,' " 
cried the child. 

"Joyful has a definite picture of every one of her heroes 
and heroines. I warn you, she will be a hard taskmistress. 
Now, how shall I sit; this way ?" 

"Oh, no. She must sit sideways, so we can see her hair, 
with that twisty way it has, and look down — but — Oh, 

"Why, that's all right, certainly, side view, and looking 
down; what's the trouble? Why the 'Oh, dear'?" 

"Why, Una had something all over her, a *Vele that 
wimpled was full low.' We can't paint her that way. We 
can see under the veil and how fair she was, in thinking, but 
we can't paint under it." 

"Why need we ?" said Mark, greatly amused. "We can 
get around that, — pretend she had thrown it back because 
it was so warm, while the * Gentle Knight' was riding on 
before, and did n't see her." 

"Ah, yes," said Joyful, delightedly, "and it wotdd float 


out in the breeze, and all her hair would show. Is n't her 
hair very beautiful, Mr. Thorn?" 

Elizabeth reddened. "You mustn't make any com- 
ments, Joyful, or I sha' n't sit for you. That 's not fair." 

"Indeed, you 're right. My brush can never do it justice, 
Miss Joyful. Now look. We'll take just the head, so. 
Is that what you wish ?" 

"Yes. You wouldn't have room for a palfrey on that 
small block. Oh ! Is that the way you do it ?" she cried, 
catching her breath in dismay, as she saw him lay on large 
masses of color with a free hand. She feared lest he spoil 
it in the very beginning. 

"Don't be afraid. I'm not going to leave it this way. 
Just be patient, and watch." 

That was a happy day for the little maid. She could not 
remember when she had been so happy. 

Mark worked with earnest gravity. He was pleased 
both with his model and his mood, and the rare good 
fortune that had brought him this opportunity ; and when 
the clouds scattered, revealing a glorious sunset, he had 
before him a sketch which appeared to him almost inspira- 
tional. As he stepped back at last and looked at it, he 
realized that he had excelled himself at his best, and he felt 
a reverence both for his model and his work. The lines 
of his face settled into a seriousness that was almost stem, 
but he said nothing. Elizabeth rose and came to his side. 
"May I see it now?" she asked. 

Mark's face relaxed into a smile. "I beg your pardon. 
I had forgotten that any one might be interested in this 
besides myself. Miss Drew — That is, well, we artists are 
an audacious set of fellows; we have to be, to succeed; 


and now, I have a favor to ask of you, almost as soon as we 
have met." 

"Certainly, Mr. Thorn; what is it?" 

"This picture, that was begun in a moment of pastime, 
1 wish to take in earnest. I Ve been searching for just this 
type of head for a year. It is a mural painting for a music 
hall, of the sjonbolic order, and in the classic style, and it 
has been at a standstill for months, waiting for me to find 
the model ai^d be in the mood to finish the work. This 
head, why, it 's absolutely — " 

"Oh, Mr. Thorn ! How can you possibly use my tip- 
tilted nose in a classic?" 

"That's nothing. What is the tip of a nose, more or 
less ? See here," he seized his brush and bent to the work 
again. Joyful sprang forward and caught his arm. 

"Don't touch it, please, Mr. Thorn. Mrs. Drew, 
must n't he leave it as it is ? " 

"Why, that 's so. This is your picture, after all. It was 
promised to you." 

"Thee is too impulsive. Joyful," said Mrs. Drew, quietly. 

"Of coiurse I'm only asking to be allowed to use this 
head as a study. The likeness may be disguised in the larger 
picture, if you so wish, Miss Drew ; and then, Miss Joyful, 
I will return the drawing to you as it is, untouched." 

The girl stood back, abashed by her own rashness, and 
Mrs. Drew's rebuke. Her eyes glistened with a suspicion 
of tears held back, as she looked up at Mark. "I 'm sorry," 
she said; "but don't you think the lady on the white palfrey 
may have had a nose that turned up a little bit like that ? 
She was English, you know, and English girls' noses are n't 
all straight like a Greek statue's." 


They all laughed merrily, while one little tear escaped 
from Joyful's drooping lashes. Mrs. Drew reached out 
and patted the child's hand. 

" Don't worry thyself, dear. Thee has done no harm, and 
after all the picture is thine, and the day may come when 
it will be thy greatest possession; thee cannot tell. Mr. 
Thorn may yet become one of the world's wonderful artists, 
such as he was telling us of at dinner." 

"Oh, I think he is now — or he never could have done 
this," she cried joyfully. She turned and raised her 
eyes to his. "Could you, Mr. Thorn?" 

Mark could not answer lightly under the weight of that 
look. " No artist is great or wonderful in himself alone, Miss 
Joyful. They all need help, even the greatest. You re- 
member what I told you yesterday ? They must have ideals. 
To-day you helped me to my ideal, and this is what I have 
done. You and Miss Drew both have a share in this." 

"It was n't the same as when you were making that head 
in your notebook — I mean the one we were talking about 
in the boat. You did n't look that way when you were 
making this." 

"No? How do you know? But never mind." 

Mark's thoughts suddenly reverted to Louise. Would 
she call this trifling? Ah, he wotdd finish that mural 
painting and make it rival the Chavannes in the Boston 
Library. Louise should be pleased at last. She should 
be made to look into his face with her soul in her splendid 
eyes. But in the meantime he must gather up his materials, 
and take his departure in all courtesy to his hostess, which 
he did, promising to return soon, and show Mrs. Drew his 
sketches about the countryside. 


As he turned toward his boarding house he saw Jack 
Stoddard sauntering in his direction, and took note of the 
handsome fellow, wondering whither his steps were taking 
him. Somehow he vaguely hoped if Jack were going to 
the Drews', that Joyful might be well on her way home. 
Yet why should he care? If Jack really loved the child, 
might it not be a solution of the quandary as to what was 
to befall her? His glance into the yoimg man's face, as 
they passed each other, was keen ; and he walked on with 
a slight sense of dissatisfaction. The words he had over- 
heard Jojrful utter came back to him, ''And I think it was 
noble in him." Of course, well dressed and debonair as 
he seemed, he might also be of a generous nature. 

Mark smiled as he swung along, thinking of his proneness 
to dramatize the lives of all he met. Here were Nathanael 
and Elizabeth, and Jack and Joyful, already taking their 
places, an integral part of the drama wherein he was shap- 
ing their destinies to suit himself. Should he have Jack 
overtake Joyful on her way home, and if so what would he 
have her do? Shotdd he have his own entrance into her 
small world influence her whole life, awaken her dreaming 
soul, and teach her how vast is the world, and how small 
is her Jack as a part of it ? 

Jane was lajong the cloth for supper at the boarding house, 
and singing shrilly as she worked. Every now and then 
she slipped through the hall to the front door, to see whether 
the large-nosed young man might be passing, and inciden- 
tally to look whether the artist might be returning. She 
wondered where he had been all day. He surely must have 
gone in somewhere ; he could n't have stayed out in all that 
pouring rain. No. There he was coming, and as dry as if 


he had been in her mother's kitchen. She simpered a little, 
as she stood aside for him to pass. 

"Been sketchin'?" 

"I have been working a little, yes." 

"Well, you must 'a found it pretty wet — such a pourin* 
rain 's weVe had." 

"It has been raining a good deal," he said, in an absent 
way, as he mounted the stairs. 

"You seem to Ve kept dry, though. How 'd you manage 
'thout an umbreF ? " 

"Dry? Yes, I am dry, that's a fact. Oh, I alwa5rs 
manage to keep dry in the rain." As he closed the door 
at the top of the stair carefully after him, a little smile 
curled his lip. "How on earth did the two ever grow up 
within a league of each other ? " he thought. 



** And ever when he came in oompanie 
Where Calidore was present, he would lore 
And byte his lip, and even for gealousie 
Was readie oft his owne hart to devoure. 
Impatient of any paramoure : 
Who on the other side did seeme so farre 
From malicing, or gruding his good houre, 
That all he could, he graced him with her, 
Ne ever shewed signe of rancour or of iarre." 

The storm that had driven Mark to take shelter in Mrs. 
Drew's cottage was the precursor of a week of rain which 
threatened to keep him immured in the boarding house. 
After a day of such confinement he fled, and bethinking 
himself of Nathanael's invitation to call, he donned a slouch 
hat and mackintosh, and walked out in the steady drizzle 
which had kept up since the evening before. 

Arrived at the white picket fence which separated the 
surrounding farm lands from the small front yard, he spied 
Nathanael standing in the bam door, looking out over the 
fields. Mark passed by the house, which had a singularly 
shut-up and forbidding appearance, and joined him. 

" Good morning," he said. " I thought you might be kept 
idle as well as I. This is abominable weather for me; 
how is it for you ? " He would have offered his hand, but 
as the young man made no movement of the sort, he merely 



stepped under cover from the rain and accepted the light- 
ing up of Nathanad's face at the sound of his voice as suffi- 
cient evidence of a welcome. 

"Very good. This weather 's just what I need now ; the 
soil of these stone piles is poor enough, without lacking rain. 
Won't you come into the house?" He spoke pleasantly, 
but a bit heavily, Mark thought. 

"No, no. I only came for a little call on you. IVe 
listened to Jane Somers' piano until I felt the need of flying to 
the companionship of some man who wotdd allow me to give 
vent to my feelings. Would you have any objection to my sit- 
ting on this box and swearing a little — mildly, you know ? " 

Nathanael laughed outright. "Would you mind my sit- 
ting here on this oat bin and listening to you ? I somehow 
feel as if a few large, round oaths would do me good." 

"Why, what 's the matter ? I 'm the one who 's in trouble. 
I Ve come here for work, and when the weather fails me, I 
find myself shut up in an environment that would kill any 
ordinary artist. If I had n't schooled myself to paint in the 
presence of howling dervishes, I'd have — " He paused 
and looked about him, up at the cobwebbed rafters, and 
then at the loft — now empty for the most part of its winter 
store of hay — and then at the great round window in the 
gable which let in a stream of light. 

"Paint here," cried Nathanael, catching at his thought. 

"Man alive, do you mean it? That's the thing." He 
seized the young man by the shoulders and shook him 
vigorously. "Do you mean it, that I may monopolize this 
loft for a while?" 

"Why should n't I mean it, if it will serve your purpose ? " 

"Certainly it will, and it may save my summer for me. 


At least it will save me from being driven out of Woodbury 
Center for a while." 

So Mark was installed in the Stoddard bam, and there, 
with his traveling equipment, and a few hangings sent from 
his city rooms, and a few pieces of rag carpeting which 
Nathanael brought out from the house thrown over the loose 
boards of the floor and the hay in the comer, he worked, 
fitfully, and yet earnestly. 

Sometimes Nathanael lay stretched on the hay, with his 
hands locked behind his head, watching him. Sometimes 
they chatted together in a desultory way, and gradually 
they learned to know each other with a quiet, imob- 
trusive knowledge each of the other's affairs and tastes and 
whims and moods, in the tolerant, kindly manner which 
young men like. Mark never felt his moods for work dis- 
sipated by the other's presence ; he rather liked it, indeed. 
It seemed to sanction only his best endeavor, as if with 
subtle intuition the young man knew when to keep still 
and when to speak. He liked the quaint goodness of the 
man, and the naive originality of thought which saved his 
provindaUsm from making him common. He was so 
different in type from Mark's usual companions of the brush, 
as to be for him, for the nonce, a sort of inspiration. 

One day, as Nathanael lay back in his usual attitude 
staring at the rafters, Mark placed Elizabeth's picture on 
his easel, and walked slowly backward, stud3dng it, and 
whistling his customary meditative notes. Suddenly he 
turned to Nathanael, and asked, — 

"Do you recognize this?" 

The yoiuig man rose, stretched himself, and moved 
deliberately around in front of the easel. Instantly a 


pallor overspread his face, and his hands clinched until the 
knuckles showed white. He drew in his breath slowly, 
but did not speak. 

Mark was not looking at him. "Don't you recognize 
it ? " he asked again. 

"Yes," said Nathanael, dryly. 

"Do you like it?'* he went on, his head on one side, and 
his eyes screwed into a squint of calculating scrutiny. He 
was planning what changes would be needed for his mural 
painting. Suddenly, aroused by his companion's silence, 
he turned on him. 

"See here, old boy," he said gently, taking him by the 
shoulder, "turn round here and look at me." But Na- 
thanael only gazed oflf out of the window at a pile of drifting 
white cloud. "Come," said Mark again, in a low voice, 
"I thought we were friends. Look, and tell me if you see 
any mud in my eye." 

Then Nathanael turned his large, blue-eyed gaze full upon 
Mark's warm hazel eyes and his hand sought Mark's. His 
lips moved, but he said nothing, and walking away he threw 
himself heavily again on his couch of carpet-covered hay, 
with his face to the wall. Mark removed the head from 
the easel, and taking up a painting of the sea began working 
on the foreground of wave-scalloped beach. Presently he 
threw down his brushes and, crossing to where Nathanael 
lay, sat beside him, clasping his knees with his arms, and 
continuing to whistle his low soft whistle. 

"I'd like to tell you something," he said, at last, " — some- 
thing I don't talk about much." The young man turned 
and gazed at him again, lying with his head raised and rest- 
ing in his clasped hands. 


"Don't trouble," he said huskily. "I'm a bit daft, I 
guess. You have a right to go where you please — paint 
whom you please — and — It was a kind of shock to 
me for a moment, that *s all." 

"Then you don't care to hear what I have to say?" 

"Why, certainly, if you care to say it. I only did n't 
wish to be misunderstood, nor to hear any excuses." 

"Man ! I make excuses for painting a beautiful woman 
whenever I get the chance ? Never!" Nathanael's lips 
closed in a grim, straight line, and he waited. "It's just 
this. You 're not the only man who supposes himself in love 
with a woman. I am, mjrself . Every man is, who 's good 
for anything. I happen to be in love with a glorious 
creature — I 'm working hard to win her, and for that reason, 
you see, I 'm not likely to be trying to win any other man's 
love away from him." He gave a little laugh, and looked 
in his companion's face, which relaxed a bit, as he replied, — 

"No. You 're not in love." 

"How so?" 

"You may imagine you are, but if you were, you 'd never 
call her a * glorious creature ' as if she were your filly. That 's 
not love, according to my definition." 

"You 're a suspicious old duffer — a proud old stickler of 
a Puritan. Not willing I shotdd call my lady a glorious 
creature? What do you call yours?" 

"I don't even venture to call her mine." 

"Man! What do you do?" 

" I treat her with the courtesy I give all women. I don't 
even allow her to think I am profane enough to love her ; 
but you — you sail in and paint her portrait — she, whom 
I love better than my life — you — you would — " 


"Goon. Say it all." 

"You would call her a creature, as I would speak of my 
horse — you would — " 

"Go on, go on, I say. This is what I like." 

"Then I will go on," said Nathanael, savagely. "You 
would win in a day what I have waited years for — in 
a day you have it, with your knowledge of the world and 
the tricks of society. You — to think she could let you do 
that ! You see what I am — a duffer, as you said — a farm 
hand, standing with gaping eyes and mouth, aloof, while you 
drop in my path and take all — all — the smiles, the pleasant 
companionship. Go ahead I You have the right to all you 
can get. I have my own life to live, and live it I must, if 
I die in this hole like a rat." He lifted his tall length from 
the floor, and began pacing about the loft. "Where did 
you put it?" he said, at last. "I want to see it again." 

Mark rose, and pulling the picture out from among a heap 
of sketches, placed it once more before him. Then he 
walked back and stood with his arm across Nathanael's 
shoulder. "Look at it, man, — regard it well, and then tell 
me if you think I have profaned your love by painting it." 

Nathanael mopped his brow with his handkerchief and 
wiped his dry lips. Then he took hold of the hand resting 
on his shoulder, and held it there. Mark's camaraderie, 
a thing he had never had before, and his genial kindliness 
were thawing a way through the ice crust which encased 
his New England heart. 

"The man who could paint that deserves anything," he 
said, at last ; and Mark felt a tremor pass through the strong 
shoulders. " That 's it. A man of ability, who has seen the 
world and had the finish — the polish — the 3ut)tle fineness 


that comes from intimacy with women or the best of his 
own kind. Do you think I can't see the difference, or would 
expect a woman like that to look at me — in the way a man 
wants ? " His sensitive face flushed through its fairness, as he 
paused in his hurried words. Never before had he opened his 
heart so nearly to any human soul. Mark began to speak. 

" It 's no matter, ' ' Nathanad interrupted. * * Your coming 
here and doing this has only made me see it in a plainer way, 
without the glamour of even the vague little hope I was 
beginning to allow myself. It 's the lightning stroke of the 
inevitable. It has to hit somewhere, sometime, you know.'* 
Nathanael threw out his words in huddled bunches, with 
long pauses between, and as he thus stammered forth his 
pain, Mark felt his heart warm toward him. 

"No, I don't know," he replied. "I see no inevitable 
about it, except that you love this woman. Don't let my 
way of putting it fluster you; it 's right. A man must love 
a woman, or he has no manhood in him. Why, fellow, it 's 
$1 man's glory to be able to love a woman like that, and in 
your case I fail to see its hopelessness." 

Nathanael gave an incredulous little laugh. " She has had 
every advantage of education and culture — she has money 
— she can go and come as she will. Since her young girl- 
hood I 've only seen her in the stunmers, between times of 
drudging on this farm. She may go out and choose her a 
mate from the best, while I hoe out my destiny among the 
grubs that eat my tomato vines. Not see its hopelessness ? " 
he spread out his hands, showing the roughened palms. 
"There ^s a hand to offer a woman like that," he said, look- 
ing at the head on the easel. 

" Come back and sit down. Let 's talk this matter over 


calmly," said Mark, quietly. "Now, then, tell me what 
is your bent?" 

Nathanael looked up at him ia surprise. "My bent?" 
he said. 

"Yes. You seem to disparage this picturesquye farm of 
yours — " 

"It's my father's, not mine, nor likely to be." 

" And talk about dying here like a rat in a hole. What do 
you mean by it? Don't be so eternally reserved. Tell 
a friend." 

"I haven't much to tell." 

" You 're an educated man — you have brains. What do 
you want to do?" 

Nathanael pulled a wisp from the pile of hay behind him 
and bit it in two, then with a dry laugh tossed it away. 
"Come," he said, "I'll show what I've kept to m3rself 
imtil I 'm heart sick with impatience. You see — " he 
paused with a gesture of desperation, " I 'm completely han- 
dicapped. I — well — in more ways than I could tell you." 
He passed along a narrow passage at the end of the stalls for 
cattle, and entered a small shed at the rear fitted up with 
bench and tools of various kinds. "Here it is. Come 
in." He set a stool near the bench, and Mark sat down^ 
gazing about him in amazement. 

The place was filled with various contrivances of mechani- 
cal device, some screwed to the wall, some tucked under 
the bench, or on it, and all connected with an electric bat- 
tery in one comer by a complete system of wires. "Why, 
how's this?" Mark exclaimed. "I never dreamed this 
would be your bent ; I had the idea that your taste ran more 
in the Greek and Latin line." 


"Well, it did; at least, I had to go in the conventional 
track for a while. There seemed no way for me to get the 
money to finish my course at Harvard but to tutor, so I 
prepared myself that way; but somehow I got a taste for 
this kind of thing, and have followed it up when I have had 

He seated himself on the bench and began pla3dng with the 
buttons ranged at the back. "This is the way they work," 
he said. "Watch that clock start." His face grew alight 
with inward fire. "I have a means of working and ad- 
justing every one of these contrivances, sitting here at my 
desk. Yonder is a safety car coupling ; you know there has 
never yet been one that is perfectly practical, but this would 
be. I won't explam it now. And there is a lock for dams, 
easily worked, and free from the objections that make those 
escapes so unmanageable. I Ve worked hard for that. 
Behind those boards is a working model of a hoisting 
machine. A man can sit in his office and xmload cars as fast 
as they can shove them up, very nearly. Now here, on 
this little dial, he can see just how full the vaults are ; if 
it 's grain, how many bushels, if ore, how many tons; just 
the shifting of this point regulates that. Watch now." He 
removed a screen of boards that covered the whole end of the 
room, and Mark saw the space behind was filled with the 
working model of which he had spoken, and noticed with 
delight the beautiful workmanship of all the parts, and the 
smoothness with which they acted when the affair was set 
in motion, which Nathanael accomplished, as he had said, 
from his seat at the bench. 

" Why, man ! You 're a genius. What 's the matter with 
you, that you were so down on yourself a while ago ?" 


''Humph! Genius? This represents a tremendoiis 
amount of hard work, and what can I do with it ? Some of 
these things have been brought out by others, and are now 
in use before I could get together the money for their patent- 
ing. I have made these parts, every one of them, myself, 
when a little money would have saved me hours of labor, 
and given me the benefit of my ideas. What little I make 
on this stone heap of a farm is not mine, and it is gone before 
it is — but never mind. There is the money for a year's 
tutoring in that machine, just in the materials alone. It 
would be easier if I were only a dreamer, and were satisfied 
with these, but I am ready to go out and use them. I want 
a chance to make them practical. I don't care to spend 
any more time here, lying low and waiting." 

'Does your father — ?" 

" Father's old and prejudiced. He 's worked hard, and 
saved closely for all he has, and I would n't ask him for a 
cent of it, if I never get a patent." 

"But surely he would be willing to help you out with this 
for the money there is in it." 

Nathanael laughed his dry little laugh, and began putting 
up the board screen. 

"Hold on a minute," cried Mark. "Let me imderstand 
this. What's the practical value? Can it do anything 
besides lift wheat?" 

"That's it," cried Nathanael, his face lighting again. 
"This is what I have been fool enough to hope the most for. 
Lift wheat? It can lift anjrthing. See here. Remove these 
pans, and shift this lever, and drop this shaft. Now it can 
hoist an elevator of coal from a mine ; pull a carload of ore 
a mile away ; do anything. My invention is chiefly valuable 


for the ease with which it can be worked from a distance, 
and in the amount of power. Here are my drawings." 
He showed Mark his books, and carefully went over every 
detail. "Now," he said, when he had finished, "you are 
the only being living who knows the secrets of this little 
room. My brother's not interested in these things, and 
father thinks I 'm little better than a gambler, and suspects 
me of wanting him to die so I can squander his hard-earned 
savings. But we'll drop that part. Here comes father 
now." He replaced the screen, as a little old man thimiped 
up with his cane, and thrust his head in at the door. 

"Be ye here, Nat?" he roared. Being deaf himself, he 
took the rest of the world to be also hard of hearing. "The 
cattle *re out of the lot, tramping over your com planting." 
^le turned and thumped away again, muttering to himself, 
without pausing to speak to Mark. "Always know where 
to find you when there 's anything to be done, lazying over 
your fool trifles 'r loafing up the loft with that painter." 

"I'll look after them, father," called Nathanael pleas- 
antly after the retreating figure, and turning the key on his 
hopes as he turned it in the shed door. "I Ve taken a good 
deal of your time, Mr. Thorn, and I thank you for your inter- 
est," he said, with dignity, as they traversed the long pas- 
sage after the muttering old man. His cheeks mantled 
with shame at his father's treatment of himself and his 
guest; nevertheless, as he was his father, he covered the 
hurt with a return to his habitual reserve. "Of course it 
disquiets father, with his strong prejudices, to find me moon- 
ing over these things." 

"We must find a way out of this for you," said Mark. 
"Keep up a good heart, man." 


"Thank you. IVe tried to do that, but things have 
slipped from under my hands so often, and seeing you — 
knowing you — I reaKze how far away I am from my goal 
— I Ve set it pretty high, you know." He paused, and the 
inward fire of his nature burst through the crust. He leaned 
a little toward Mark, and said in a voice of low intensity, 
** Father believes hell is a lake of fire and brimstone. I 
know it is a man's soul, who has aspirations, and no hope." 

'*Have you ever had a friend?" said Mark, as he paused 
with one foot on the ladder leading up to his loft. 

"Not in the sense in which you mean it, no. Not a man 

" Then take my hand and know that you have one. We '11 
talk this all over again soon, but now I '11 go to my painting, 
and you look after your cows." 

Nathanael did not reply, but he took the hand held out 
to him in a strong, nervous grasp, and their eyes met. He 
did not need to speak. Mark needed no more than that 
one magnetic look to assure him that his overture was re- 
ceived with the fine appreciation of a sensitive nature, and 
had sent a ray of heaven into that soul's hell. 

JACK Stoddard's wooing 

Far sailing on the faint horizon's edge 
And all enmeshed in threads of golden light. 
The fair moon rises from the moving sea, 
And melancholy shades in hurried flight 
Withdraw to holes and caves and somber woods ; 
And now comes sighing a poor lovelorn wight, 
Lured by the moon's enchanting spell, to creep 
And woo a maid throughout the charmM night. 

Seated in his loft before his easel, Mark worked for a while 
with unremitting care. An air from Schumann which 
Elizabeth had played for him the evening before hung in 
his mind, and he whistled the refrain, but he was not think- 
ing of her. He was thinking of Joyful and Louise. He 
wondered why he was always connecting them in his thought 
when nothing that pertained to either could ever suggest 
the other. It seemed as if some intangible thread connected 
the two. Suppose they should meet, what would they do 
with each other? What would Louise do with Joyful, 
rather? "She is far better off with Miss Drew for her 
guardian angel," he thought, and with the thought came 
a haunting sense of disloyalty to his love. Yet he would 
not like to see Joyful changed. 

Of course the child must develop and find her bearings, if 
ever she came to feiid for herself, as she surely must some- 
time; but to be really changed, to be no more Joyful, with 



the charmed soul, bom of the woods, the sea, and the sky — 
how could she change and meet the sordid cares entafled 
in a struggle with the world for a right to exist and become 
a part of it, without suffering ? Ah, it was a sad thought. 
She must undergo deterioration by it. Like a harebell torn 
from its mossy bank, were she to be dragged out into the 
world as he knew it, she would be crushed or transformed 
into something less lovely. He thought he saw in it all the 
very "Lrony of Fate." Here was Nathanael, who should 
rightly and properly become her Knight Errant, large- 
minded and sweet-souled, capable of appreciating the child's 
charm; but he, forsooth, must needs fix his contrary heart 
on Elizabeth, who did not need him, and might suit herself 
with a lover where she would. The fellow had made a mis- 
take. Why should he fix his affections in so hopeless a way 
on Elizabeth, when the very nature of the case demanded 
that he love Joyful ? The more he thought it over, the more 
his plan appeared to be right. 

Alas for the limitations of himian knowledge ! Could 
Mark Thorn have looked with omniscient eye into Elizabeth's 
soul, he would have found mirrored in its clear depths the 
image of the young man from whom he had just parted 
at the foot of the ladder. Could he have seen Joyful as 
her Creator saw her, he would have likened her not to a 
frail harebell by the stream, but to a priceless gem, which 
might indeed be trampled upon, but which could never take 
a stain because of its inherent inability to coalesce with im- 
purity. Joyful, her stronghold being her own spirit, would 
be safer far in the midst of the world's entanglements than 
Mark Thorn himself, with all his worldly wisdom. How- 
ever, not being omniscient, but merely a kindly hiunan 


brother, he softly whistled and worked, weaving a love tale 
out of the elements around him, and planning earnestly away 
of escape for Nathanael from his present thraldom to the 
dragon of poverty and his father's captious nature. 

"Has old Mr. Stoddard any money?'' he asked Somers, 
as they sat on the step after supper that evening. 

"Why, the' do say 't he 's pretty well oflF 'nd got money 
banked away. Well, he 'd ought to be — closter 'n a steel 
trap — be'n savin' ever sence he wuz bom. He sticks to 
a dollar like a weasel sticks to a hen. Somebody told me 
't knows, 't he 's wuth ten thousand dollars 'f he 's wuth 
a cent." Mark smiled at his loquacious informer's idea of 
boundless wealth, as he brought his wrinkled face close to 
his listener's ear, and spoke these last words in an awed 
whisper. " He 's got good idees too, the old man has. Alluz 
square dealin' — pays all his bills up cash, goes to church 
reg'lar, 'nd prayer meetin', too, for all he can't hear nothin' 
when he does go. That 's more 'n some does. But he 's got 
idees, certain, fer all he 's kinder grindin' on his sons, so the* 
say — on Nathanael leastways ; not so much so on Jack ; 
but then, p'raps Jack won't stand it. The' is boys that 
way. You can't grind 'em like you can some." 

"How so?" Mark usually obtained all the information 
he wished by throwing in a question now and then, and 
waiting while Somers' slow speech trailed along over a wide 
range of village history. 

"Why, ye see, they is them that ups and goes when th' 
grindin' sets in. They won't hev their noses held down, 
no more 'n a high-steppin' horse '11 lean to th' plow. Jack, 
he 's mettlesome 'nd full o' sperrit, 'nd hard to hold. Nat, 
he '11 Stan' most anythin' f 'm his pa. When Jack skips, he 


jes' ties down to th' farm 'nd makes things go. When his 
pa's temper 's drove oflF every hand the' is to be got in th- 
place, he shuts his mouth up glimi, 'nd carries things. 
Don't say nothin' to nobody. Some say he ain't got much 
sperrit, not to speak on, 'nd he doos go moonin' c'nsid'able; 
but there ! 's I says to S'phi, I sa3rs, 't that boy 's got more 
fire in him 'n you 'd think. Says I, * He 's like yer rut beer — 
don't dast let th' cork out fer fear he '11 fizzle so 't all the 
good the' is in him '11 go. Like 's not he makes it a point 
to keep himself bottled up,' says I, 'nd I calc'late 't I 'm right, 
too, fer he 's like his ma. Now his ma, she was the greatest 
one to work you ever see. She 'd work till she dropped in 
her tracks. Why, the way that woman died, 't was th' same 's 
if she died with th' harness on 'nd was gone 'fore ye' could 
onhitch her. Some said 't she had n't no sperrit, 'er she 
would n't a let th' old man drive 'er so. But Land sakes ! 
't wan't his drivin'. She done it herself, 'nd how I know, 
well, 't was this way. Mis. Pitman, she lives next door here, 
she told S'phi, 'nd S'phi told me. She says to Mis. Stoddard 
one day, when she come there 'nd found her startin' to walk 
four mile to the station 'ith her butter after she 'd done a big 
washin' in the mornin', says she, 'Why, Mis. Stoddard, 
whatever doos make you work so? Jes' killin' yerself,' 
says she, 'The' won't nobody give you no thanks,' says she. 
'Nd Mis. Pitman says to S'phi, * Mis. Somers, you 'd ought to 
'a seen her. She looked at me 's if her eyes 'd shoot fire, 'nd 
she says, "Who wants thanks? " says she. ''lain't doin' 
this f'r him; I 'm doin' it f'r my two boys. They 've got to 
be educated 'f I have to crawl on my hands and knees 'nd 
pack this butter to th' station on my back." ' 

" Nobody need n't tell me 't she was a poor sperritless 


creature. You see, sperrit works two ways. In some it 
makes 'em high steppin', 'nd drivin' o' others, 'nd I take 
it that 's Jack's way ; 'nd then in others it makes 'em work 
themselves like all possessed till the whole 'tamal earth, 
can't stop 'em from gettin' what the' 're after. Well, the old 
man was fair, 'f he is clost. The' do say 't he put by all the 
money 't she earned, 'gainst the boys growed up, 'nd that 's 
what sent 'em to college. Nat, he was through high 
school, put' near, when she died. Nat went to Harvard, all 
right, like his ma wanted, 'nd when he come to his last year 
he quit 'nd sent Jack. You see, how he come to quit, he 
would n't spend a cent more 'n his half o' th' money. The* 
do say, 't when Jack came to take his turn, 't he run through 's 
much money 's had done Nat three years, in six months, 'nd 
then Nat nm in debt f 'r him, I don't know how much. Nat 
never 'd tell. His pa would n't help him out none, so all the 
money Nat 'd eamt in one way and another 't he 'lowed to 
finish up on, all went to his brother. He says Jack '11 pay him 
back — well, I hope he will — 'fore it 's too late." Here 
Mrs. Somers' voice was heard, calling shrilly. 

" Somers — Somers — where be yuh ? Hain't you never 
goin' to draw the water ? I got to put them clo'es a-soak." 

"Yes, S'phi, I 'm comin' fast 's I can. Women is the 
most impatient creatures ! It does beat all how differently 
college works on boys. Now Nat — when he started in he 
was one o' these green, or'nary chaps, jes' halfway betweea 
stringin' and shellin', like all boys is 'long 'bout that age, 
but when he come home you never see such a change 's 
the' was in that boy. He carried himself straight 'nd head 
up, like one o' these blood horses 't lets the check-rein flop 
loose — looked ye' in the eye 'nd took his hat clean oflF his 



head to th' women — guess the' wan't much inside o' books 
'r out of 'em he had n't learned in them three years ; but his 
brother — well, with him 't was diflE'rent. Now he — " 

" Somers ! Be ye' there ? Be ye goin' to draw that water 
'r ain't ye ? " called the exasperated voice of S'phi, 

"Yes, ma, yes. I'm comin' — Women can't never wait 
for nothin' — But I kinder noticed Nat lately. He seems 
to be gitt'n glum 'nd mopin' again." He rose and sauntered 
aroimd the house, disappearing in the direction of the well. 

Mark sat a few moments longer, then decided he would 
call on the Drews for an evening of music and chat. He had 
fallen in the way of doing this. As they sat on the little 
stoop in the evening light, some one strolled past, dimly seen 
in the gathering dusk. "Could that be Jack Stoddard?" 
Elizabeth asked herself. " Why was he here again so soon ? " 

Mark had been speaking of Nathanael, revealing none of the 
secrets of the little bam workroom, however, holding sacred, 
even from these friends, the young man's confidences. 

"There 's splendid material in that young fellow — I am 
convinced of it," he was saying. 

"So am I," replied Elizabeth, quietly. 

" Nathanael holds himself too much aloof from his fel- 
lows," said Mrs. Drew. "It 's not good for a young man." 

" Mother, who is there in the village for liim to associate 
with ? No one here is his equal, unless, perhaps, the rector, 
and he feels himself so exalted by reason of his o£5ice that 
Nathanael could as easily hobnob with the church door. 
I would like to shake that man sometimes. His black 
clothes fit him altogether too well." 

"Nathanael spoke freely with thee, Elizabeth, concerning 
his brother; yet he kept back much, I 'm thinking." 


"He seems very fond of that brother of his/' said Mark. 
"I Ve only seen the boy twice. He returned this evening, 
and I had a few words with him at the Stoddards' gate. 
He 's a handsome fellow." 

"Far too handsome," said Elizabeth. "I thought he 
sailed away three weeks ago, for a three years' cruise. 
What is he back for ? " 

"That's more than I know," said Mark, with a laugh. 
"Perhaps it is to see Joyful Heatherby. Was n't that he 
who passed just now?" 

Elizabeth sat silent and troubled. She did not care to 
allow this man, almost a stranger, to surmise her thoughts. 

"He may be a good fellow," continued Mark, "but he 
never would be able to appreciate that child's nature. His 
brother could, if he cared to." 

"Thee must have her to spend the day with thee to-mor- 
row, Elizabeth." 

"Not to-morrow, mother. Thee has forgotten thy en- 
gagement in town. Next day I will. Shall we go in for 
some music ? I have a new song you must try for me, Mr. 

So they went in and looked over new music, and the sub- 
ject of their neighbors was dropped. Mark wondered, with 
a slight sense of disappointment, at her apparent indiffer- 
ence. He had thought her greatly interested in Joyful. 
In one comer he noticed a quaint old gidtar case of leather, 
studded with brass. " Do you play that instriunent also ? " 
he asked, regarding it curiously. 

"Very little. I like the piano better, of course. That is 
Jo3rful's guitar. It was her mother's." She took it from the 
case. " See, it 's a very fine one." 



Did you know her mother?'* 

"^^ Indeed, yes. She was not really as pretty as Joyivl, 
but she had a rare charm about her. I never loved any 
woman more, except my mother," she said softly. "Ex- 
amine this. The workmanship is beautiful. Joy plays 
it very well, and has quite a pretty taste. Her mother 
taught her, and I Ve helped her somewhat. She leaves it 
here when we 're at home, and comes to practice when she 
has time. She is a busy little thing, you know. She can't 
play it at home because it makes her grandmother very 

Elizabeth turned away and began a nocturne of Chopin's. 
She hated to show her feelings, but Mark thought he was 
beginning to understand her, and sat silent, listening. 
Suddenly she stopped and turned half round. "Perhaps 
you think it strange I care so little about Jack's going to see 
her; but I know Joyful. She 's in no danger from him. She 
is so far away from him and so elusive, that he might as well 
think of courting a rainbow." 

"I don't know about that. I heard her defending him 
roundly to her grandmother, the evening they took me in. 
I could n't help hearing. I did n't know who Jack was then, 
but I think she may be in danger." 

Elizabeth turned and finished the nocturne. " Nathanael's 
love will save her from Jack, in that event," she thought, 
but said only, "I think it was merely her kindness of heart. 
She would champion any one whom she felt was being 
abused — besides — some one else thinks more of her than 
Jack does, or ever could." 

She plunged into a tumultuous tarantelle, and Mark 
leaned back and watched her. " She 's too deep for me," he 


thought. "Does she mean Nathanael, or is she trying to 
ward me off?" 

He went home with the question still imanswered, and 
determined to spend the next day at the Heatherbys' and 
paint Joyful, if he could ; and if not, sketch in the vicinity. 
He would see more of the child. She was continuaUy in his 
thoughts, and always with a sense of foreboding for her 
future. Yet he smiled at the futility of any attempt on his 
part to interfere with her fate. What could he do ? She 
must live her little life here until some way opened — but 
then what ? One thing only could he do. He could teach 
her not to idealize Jack. To save her from him was some- 
thing, and moreover, he would look into the matter of 
Nathanael's inventions and see what he could do to start 
the man along. He would nm up to Boston, and see a few 
business friends there, and stop long enough to visit his aunt 
and Louise. 

Jack had spent that evening seated on the Heatherbys^ 
porch, smoking with the old man, and talking, and watching 
impatiently for Joyful to come out. He knew she was in her 
room, for he could see the light in her window, and hear her 
stepping about. He explained loudly, that she rhight hear, 
that their sailing had been delayed, and that he had run up to 
see Nat, and must leave again next day ; that this was the 
only evening he would have, and that then he must be a 
wanderer. But in spite of the sadness at his heart, which 
he felt sure she ought to know, she did not appear. He was 
angry, and held his head high, and presently bidding the old 
man good-bye, stalked away into the darkness. 

He had not seen her since the evening he had kissed her at 
the gate. She had a shamed fear of meeting him after that 


kiss, and during the week of his stay had persistently avoided 
him by spending as much of her time as possible with Eliza- 
beth, practicing her guitar and sewing. She would hurry 
around with her work at home, kiss her grandmother good- 
bye, and escape. Sometimes she longed to have her old 
playmate back again as he used to be, even with his t3nranny 
and boyish contempt of her girl ways ; and as she heard his 
voice below, on this soft June evening, she cried a little; 
but all the more she would not go down, nor let him see she 
cared, partly through pride, and partly through maidenly 
fear lest he seize upon her and make her say something she 
did not wish to say. In her heart she could not help com- 
paring Mr. Thorn with him. "Of course he is n't as hand- 
some as Jack — no one is — but then" — and again the 
gentle courtesy of Mark's manner would come back to her, 
and the inflections of his voice. She heard him sajring, 
"Again you are right. Miss Joyful." Then she would 
go over in her mind considering the things of which he was 
talking with Mrs. Drew and Elizabeth. Why, Jack would n't 
even know what the difference was between Mr. Thorn and 

Thinking these thoughts, she leaned out of the window 
and watched the moon in a glowing disk, rise out of the sea. 
The house grew still, and she knew her grandfather and 
grandmother were gone to bed. The night tempted her. 
She would go out to the bluff and watch the " Gold-green 
snakes" playing in the path of the moonlight on the water. 
She threw a little red shawl about her, and ran out into the 
beautiful night, along the path through the blueberry lot 
to the edge of the bluff. There she stood gazing off into 
the mysterioiis dimness with the long path of quivering 

IB cloae beside her. She could feel his breaUi upon bee cheek. 
Page 135. 


lighty leading in luminous perspective tx> the wonderful 
golden ball now floating on the horizon line. It seemed to 
her the very soul and center of all mystery, creeping slowly 
up to look out over the earth upon the hidden things 
— the soft, fluttering things that feared to come out in the 
blazing light of day. 

She looked up at the sky. It was very far away — 
farther than in the daytime, and its blue seemed turned 
into a purple black, sparingly studded with brilliant points. 
She stretched out her arms toward the streaming light on 
the sea. Ah ! if she could only go out there, and walk 
on it. She threw back the little shawl and let the cool air 
blow about her face and neck, and her heart filled with a 
strange and thrilling gladness — she could not have told why, 
nor for what — but only that the world was so very beauti- 
ful and sweet and still. Her soul cried out in ecstasy a 
voiceless song of gladness, bom of her youth and strength, 
and the slumbering dream in her breast of something that 
was to come to her some day, and which would be akin to 
this moment of sweetness and stillness and mystery. 

She forgot Jack and her fear of being alone with him again, 
and stood quiet in her breathless happiness, only feeling 
that the world was very beautiful, and that Grod was good 
to make it so, and to give it all to her — all the beauty. 
Again she stretched her arms out toward the glorious 
path of Ught, and slowly sank upon her knees. What if it 
should become a real path and lead into heaven ? 


She gave a violent start, and rose quickly to her feet. 
Jack was close beside her. She could feel his breath upon 
her cheek, and she shrank back, even to the very edge of 


the bluff. He reached out and caught hold of her, pulling 
her away. 

"Why, Joy, you must n't start so. It 's only me. Come 
back. You '11 pitch over there. I did n't mean to scare you 
so, Joy. No, I 'm going to hold on to you as long as you 
will stand so close to the edge. Come. You 're not afraid 
of me, Joy — I declare I beKeve you 've been sleepwalking." 

She stepped away from the edge of the bluff, and he let 
her slip from his grasp. "I 've been sitting right over there 
imder that crab tree all the time. I wonder you did n't see 
me. You must have been sleepwalking." 

"No, I haven't. What are you doing here? I thought 
you went home." 

"I could n't go without seeing you, Joy. Why would n't 
you come down? You knew I was there." She said 
nothing, but looked off over the sea again. "I stayed 
around here hoping you 'd come out, and if you had n't, I 'd 
have thrown pebbles on your window and called you out. 
Did you think I was going to sail away without seeing you 
again — without getting the promise I want? What 
makes you shiver so, Joy ? Are you cold ? Here, put on 
my coat." 

"No, no. I'm not cold. No, Jack." 

"What made you keep out of my way that week I was 
at home ? Here I 've had to come all the way back just for 
this; you knew all the time I was there, but you stayed in 
your room. What makes you treat me so, Joy? Don't 
you like me any more ? " 

Regretfully she had turned her back on the sea, and on 
her dreams and imaginings. The reality which had come 
so suddenly upon her seemed more unreal than they. 


She wished he would not walk so close to her, and hurried 

her steps a little toward the cottage. 

"Why do you hurry so, Joy ? Wait a little. Don't you 

like me any more, Joy ? Say, don't you ? " He spoke with 

a quiver in his voice, for he was sorry for himself, and its 

sadness touched her. 

"Why, yes. Jack. I told you so before." 

"Well, you don't act like it. You used to run to meet 

me when I came, and have something to tell me, as if you 

were glad ; but now you run away from me, and try not to 

see me." 

"But you 're changed. Jack. I wish you would go back 
and be just as you used to be." 

" Of course I 'm changed. Would you have me stay a boy 
all my lif e ? I 'm a man now, and have prospects before 
me. I mean to be rich some day — I have the chance — 
and I sha' n't let it get away from me. I have a perfect right 
to speak to you. See, Joy — there 's just one big chance in 
me, and I 'm not going to change back. Then I was a boy, 
and your playmate, and now I 'm a man, and your lover." 
He caught her suddenly and drew her close to him. " Some 
day you 're going to be my wife, Joy. I always meant that. 
ELiss me now, and say you will." 

Ah i He was so strong and handsome, and this was 
really like what she had read of in books. All the girls 
had lovers, of course, so she ought to have one; but her 
heart was beating so hard, and she could not feel her feet 
imder her — they seemed numb — and she could not 
catch her breath to speak. She lifted her downcast face, 
and the sweet red lips drew near to his. Suddenly the old 
fear clutched at her heart, and she turned her face away, 


and his kias fell on her cheek. That was the way he had 
kissed her before. Oh, if he would only stop ! What 
would her grandmother say — and grand-daddy — what 
would he say if he knew she were out here in the night, in 
Jack's arms, being kissed? What would Elizabeth say? 
She tried to tear herself away from him. 

"Oh, Jack ! Let me go. Stop, Jack; I 'm not ready to 
have a lover yet." 

"Yes, you are, Joy. This is all right! You 're going to 
be my wife some day, you know." 

"Jack, I tell you, no! It isn't all right! I've never 
told you I would. Let go of me. I shall hate you. Jack." 
She put her hand over his eyes and pushed his face away. 

"That 's right, Joy. BKnd me. Hate me and blind me," 
he said bitterly. "I can't see anything but you; I can't 
think of anything but you. Push me oflf and hate me." 
But he still held her. 

Suddenly she stopped her futile struggle, and seemed to 
gain power from within, or above herself. "Jack," she 
said, in a low quiet voice, "Stop. Let go of me. and take 
my hand and walk back with me toward the house. I 
have something to say to you." 

He obeyed her, and she put her hand in his and led him 
on toward the house, but did not speak. As they neared 
the cottage, he drew back. 

"Stay here, Joy. If we go any farther they'll hear us 
talking and call you in. What is it you have to say to me ? 
Is it what I want, Joy ? What I came back for ? " 

They paused imder a wide-spreading thorn tree, and she 
turned from him, leaning her head in her arms against its 
rough bark, and stood for a moment silent. His vehemence 


had frightened her, and she feared lest she say what she 
might afterwards repent. Her heart was crying out within 
her for help; but he thought her weeping, and longed to 
take her again in his arms and comfort her. He felt as he 
had done when a boy and had hurt her. 

" Don't cry, Joy. Did I hurt you ? I could n't help it. 
I can't seem to make you understand how I feel," he pleaded, 
putting a shaking hand on her shoulder and bringing his 
face close to hers again. "Listen, Joy." 

But she held him back. "No, Jack. I must talk now. 
You must n't try to make me say what you want. When 
you come back in another year you '11 find me here just the 
same — why need you be so determined when I have n't 
had time to think of — of it — now — as you would have 
me? Why need you, Jack?" 

"No. I can't wait a year. I want to fed that I have 
your promise. Think what it would do for me, Joy, — 
give me a hope, and something to save me from everything 
I ought to be saved from. I could n't do wrong, you know, 
Joy, when I have you to think of. Rather than go without 
your promise, I 'd steal you this minute and take you off 
and marry you now." He spoke eagerly. "Don't keep 
stepping back from me. You act as if you were afraid of 
me, Joy." 

"I am, Jack, when you hold me against my will." 

"Then don't let it be against your will, Joy." 

"That 's it. My will must always be your will ; but this 
time I 'fl not do your way. That 's why I would n't see you 
again — and. Jack, listen to me. I can't save you from 
anything. Every one has to fight his own monsters." 

"What have monsters to do with this?" 


"You know what I mean. Out in the world, where you 
are going, are the monsters — things you must overcome, 
and if you can 't be brave and fight them because it 's in 
your own heart to do it, and because you, your own self, 
just hate anything but good and right, what help could 
any promise from me be to you ? " 

"Why, it would help me to be strong to think you were 
here waitmg for me, you know." 

She shook her head. " I don't know how it is, but some 
way it seems to me a great man Uke you, to be really noble 
and good, ought to be strong in his own heart, and not 
need always some kind of a reward held out, like saying, 
'Now, Jack, be good, and when you come back you can 
have me,' as if I were a piece of sugar candy and you were 
a baby. You just ought to sail away with your head up, 
as true and strong and glorious as the knights of old did, 
who used to go and slay dragons, just because ugly, wicked 
things were hateful to them. That 's the way Nathanad 
would do." 

"Yes, and come back and find that he, or some other 
fellow, had won you away from me, and I was left out in 
the cold. I see. It 's Nat, or some one, who seems better 
to you than I. That's why you're afraid." 

Joyful turned abruptly away and walked toward the 
house. "It's late. Jack. I'm going in." 

He ran after her and caught her up in his arms, just 
as she reached the gate. "Joy, you must stop and say 
you '11 promise me before I leave. Were you going in with 
never a word for me, when this is to be the last for a year, 
perhaps two?" 

* ' Yes. I do n't like the way you 're acting. Put me down. 


We 're not children any more, and this is different I 'm 
sure. Something makes me feel that you're not — Oh, 
Jack! Can't you see you're only making me afraid of 
you? Put me down," she entreated. 

"Just see how I could carry you off, if I chose, and you 
could n't help yourself. Shall I take you away and never 
bring you back ? Give me my promise, or I will." 

*'I '11 tell you nothing until you put me down, Jack !" 

"There, then. Stand on your own little feet." He put 
his hand under her chin and turned her face up to his. 
"Tell me, and stop shivering so. Why, Joy, I would n't 
hurt you, don't you know that?" 

" I '11 make you just one promise. Jack, and that must 
content you. I '11 not marry any one — how could I ? — 
but I '11 stay right here with grandmother. She needs me. 
You '11 find me here with them just as I am." 

He still lifted her face toward his. " Is that all ? " 


"You won't promise to marry me when I come back?" 
She was silent, and her lips quivered. "Won't you watch 
for me, and hope for me to come ? " 

She pushed his hand away very gently. " I sha' n't prom- 
ise any more than what I 've said. When you come back 
you may be very glad I have not. You can't tell. I have 
read of men who have made girls promise things, and then 
never came back, but stayed away and broke their hearts ; 
and some, like Tannhauser, who have gone off and listened to 
sirens, who are wicked beings who have no souls — and — " 

" What do I know about Tannhauser ? That 's no way ! 
Either you love, or you don't love me TannhSuser has 
nothing to do with us." 



"Oh, I do, Jack, I do. Or at least I did, before you acted 
in this way. You 're safe enough with the promise I have 
made, and some day you may be glad it is no more. Be 
good, Jack, and say good-bye, properly — and — Not that 
way, Jack. It is n't — " 

"Then give me my promise, or I'll do worse," he said, 
with shaking voice. But again she slid out from his grasp 
and through the little gate. 

"Good night. Jack, — Good-bye. Do right. Jack, — 
good-bye," she said softly, and reaching up, she just touched 
his cheek with her hand, and was gone. It was the only 
caress she had ever volimtarily given him, except one. She 
was a little thing, and had hurt his hand by slamming the 
gate against it in one of her tantrums of rebellion at his 
authority. That time she had kissed the hand she had 
hurt, and one of her precious tears had fallen on it. Now, 
again her tears had dropped upon his hand as he had held 
her face turned up toward his. He thought of that other 
time, and stood leaning against the gate. He longed for 
her to come out again. His arms ached to hold her as 
he had held her a moment since. Why should she fear him, 
and slip away from him ? He knew in his heart she was 
right and he wrong, yet he did not care. He wished he had 
held her and kept her with him. 


joyful's secret 

It happened once upon a summer day, 
A maid walked forth into a darkling wood. 
Child of the rain, and of the sim's bright ray,— 
Undina was she called — and while she stood 
Listening a bird note in a tree top high, 
God wrought in her fair soul a mystery sweet, 
Called love ; and when she turned, she saw anigh 
A strong knight kneeling at her feet. 

As Joyful slipped in and fastened the door behind her, 
she heard no sound but the ticking of the clock and the 
purring of the gray cat curled up on the patchwork cushion 
of the rocking-chair. The room seemed so cozy and safe 
that again she thought of her mother's words, "Here art 
thou safe, little one," as she crept shivering up to her own 
little white-curtained chamber. The moonlight streamed 
over the floor and fell across the white coimterpane and 
pillows of her bed, and she knelt there, stiU and white 
in the silvery light. She was neither praying nor thinking ; 
she was quivering throughout her whole being with the 
strange excitement that had seized upon her. Her heart 
was filled with a woeful longing and foreboding. Oh ! if 
she could have her father and mother back again, she could 
tell them, and ask what to do. If only Jack had n't talked 
that way, and had let things be as they were ! She felt 



that because of him and what he had said, she could not 
be happy any more. Grand-daddy would be so angry if 
he knew, and grandmother might have a speU. No, she 
must keep this from them; but was it right? At last, 
from sheer weariness, she fell asleep there, to wake at last, 
stiff and wondering. Then she said her prayers and crept 
into bed, and again sobbed herself to sleep, questioning 
in her heart if maidens always felt like this when they had 
lovers, or if it was really such a gladsome thing as the 
romancers made out. 

"Joy, seems to me ye 're looking white this morning. 
What ails you ? " said her grandfather to her next day, as 
he passed her in the summer kitchen, where she stood 
with her hands in the flour, kneading a ball of spongy dough. 

"Am I?" she asked, her face suddenly turning crimson. 

"Why, no, y' ain't now, you look like a pe'ny. What 
ails you, child?" 

"Nothing, grand-daddy." 

"She said she had headache when she first came down 
this momin'. Why don't ye tell ye'r grandfather the truth, 
Joy?" said Mrs. Heatherby. "Here — let me finish that 
bread, 'nd you wash th' flour off ye'r hands 'nd run out in 
the Sim a spell. It '11 do you good." 

"I'm all right now." 

"The sun '11 do you good. Run on, child. You're 
nothing else, fer all ye 're tall 's I be." 

Joyful threw her arms contritely about her grandmother's 
neck, scattering flour over the lilac gown, and went out. A 
vague sense of guilt in the keeping of her secret troubled her, 
and her heart ached. She crept upstairs and stood looking 


over her precious books, and finally selecting two favorites 
carried them out in the sun, as her grandmother had told 
her to. First she started down the path toward the sea, 
but there the thought of Jack and his eager wooing oppressed 
her, and the sense of fear that had made her quiver under 
his touch rushed over her again. She turned back and 
strolled into the woods, thinking new thoughts, and wonder- 
ing why she thought them. 

For a while she started and trembled at every sUghtest 
noise, fearing it to be the fall of a foot, or the breathing of 
a man near her. What if Jack should come again suddenly 
— what could she say ? But then, why should she be afraid 
of him ? Had n't they always known each other ? Had 
she done right to send him away as she did ? Could n't 
she have been kinder? But then, he was changed. He 
was not the old Jack who had played with her and tyran- 
nized over her all her life. If he would be her lover, he 
must show his love by doing something she asked of him 
first, as the knights of old always did. First he must pay 
Nathanael all he owed him. She would tell him that, if he 
came again. She shut her Kps firmly, and took comfort 
in the thought that she had something definite to say, for 
her true and inward objection to his suit she could not 
interpret to herself, much less to him. It was a subtle 
fear that pervaded her inmost soul, when he changed from 
the playfellow into the lover. Her heart revolted and cried 
out: "No, no. He shall not possess me." 

An hour later, had Mark Thorn been gifted with pre- 
science, he could not have chosen a more propitious moment 
to walk into her presence. It was with deliberate purpose 
he had set out that morning, armed with paints and brushes. 


With the unconscious arrogance that pertains to the human 
spedes, he would essay to assume the Lord's prerogative of 
deciding the destinies of human souls. Nathanael did not 
know what was good for him, moreover Joyful should be 
saved from becoming the slave of the erratic Jack. He 
would probe into her nature and learn what influences were 
at work there. He would paint her and incidentally watch 
her moods, and study her heart — and lo ! — here was his 
picture all planned for him, a true sylvan romance. 

On a seat fitted in the forked tnmk of an enormous beech, 
she sat, with the sunlight scattered over her, like golden 
rain through the leaves. She was reading the story of 
Undine, in the French, and had forgotten to listen for foot- 
steps. When she heard him approach, she awoke with a 
startled pallor which quickly changed to a flush of joy, as 
she looked up. He took note of both the pallor and the 

"Oh, I 'm so glad it 's you. I thought — " she stopped. 

"Here we go again," he said, merrily. "What did you 

"Are you going to paint now? May I stay by and 
watch you ? Do you care ? " 

"Oh, don't throw away your book." He sat down at 
her side. "May I see this? Ah, Undine. Yes — I was 
going to paint, and you may watch me all you like — but 
you did not tell me what you thought." 

She laughed; but again the paleness passed into her 
face, and was gone. "Perhaps I did n't think." 

"You said 'I thought,' and stopped, you know." 

"Well, that 's it. Don't you ever say I think, when you 
mean just the opposite?" 


" Come, tell me truly, what did you, or did n't you think ? " 

"You are like pld Eang John, with his Abbot, and his 
'questions three': 'But, tell me here truly what I do 
think, ' only you say 'What you do think.' I did n't think 
it was you, that 's all." 

"Then I'm very glad you looked pleasant, otherwise I 
should have thought you were disappointed that I am not 
some one else." 

" Oh, no. I 'm glad. You know I told you so. What 
are you going to paint ? " 

"I came to ask if you would be as kind to me as Miss 
Drew was, and let me paint you ? " 

"Oh, will you?" she cried joyfully. "Then I shall see 
how I would look if I were somebody else. What shall I 

Mark sat slowly turning over the leaves of the book in his 
hand. "Do you love this story ?" he asked. 

"I love it — yes. I used to love it when I was so small 
I had to spell out all the hard words to mother." She took 
the book from his hand and turned to her mother's name 
written on the flyleaf. " Father wrote that," she said, and 
kissed it. 

"Would you like me to paint you as Undine?" 

Her eyes opened wide with amazement. "I couldn't 
dance in a rainbow nust for you." 

"No, no," he laughed, and then they both broke into 
merry laughter. "Undine was of many moods and in 
many places. I would like to paint a series of pictures 
showing the spirit of the tale, and it would help me greatly 
to find some one who could understand its true meaning, 
to pose for me." 


"Do you think any one could understand all its real, 
true meaning?'' 

** If not, I would like to find some one who loves the story, 
and is capable of throwing herself into the poetic sentiment 
of it, and that I am sure you are." 

"Yes," she cried, with simple directness. "Shall we 
begin now ? What shall I wear ? " She rose and stood 
straight and animated before him, with laughter and light 
in her eyes. "I did it once, when I was very small. It 
was raining and was dark, with just a Uttle flash of Ught- 
ning now and then, and it was warm summer time. I re- 
member I climbed out of bed and ran out in my bare feet 
to dance on the green and shake the water drops from 
my hair, and rap on the window, and make them come 
and see me glimmer in the darkness." 

"What did they do?" 

"Oh, father came out and ran after me, and I dodged 
about, and he caught me and carried me in, all wet. I 
remember feeHng so sorry I could n't vanish and turn into 
rain in his arms, and then have him find me sitting all 
quietly in the house when he came in, as Undine would 
have done. Mamma was going to give me a little whipping, 
but he had only just come home from a voyage that day, 
and so he said no, and they both took me up to bed, and 
put me in dry clothes, and sat by me until I went to 

Mark opened his box and began arranging his easel. 
"We can paint right here, and you must help me as you 
did when Miss Drew sat for me, about planning the dress." 

As she stood watching his movements, she reached up 
and caught a long branch of wild grapevine that hung above 


her head, and clung to it, swasdng back and forth in the rain 
of golden sunlight. Mark looked up, and saw his pose. 

"There, stand as you are," he cried. "It couldn't be 
better." He placed himself on the shadowed side of her 
and began rapidly to catch the salient points of his picture, 
ere she should grow weary. 

For a time he worked in silence with knitted brows, as if 
his very life depended on each stroke of his brush ; while 
she swayed to and fro, clinging to the vine, and watching 
his face with serious eyes. Her thoughts were filled with 
many grave wonderings now, about the story for which 
she was posing ; about him and the lady whose face he had 
drawn in his notebook ; and thus a half hour was passed 
ere he awoke to the thought of the physical tension imder 
which he was keeping her. 

"I wish I could be in front of you and behind you too, 
so I could see what you're doing," she said, at last. "If 
I were Undine, I would dissolve in a thousand sparkling 
drops, and then if I did n't like it, I would shake them all 
over you and your picture. How would you like that ? " 

He started from his abstraction, and saw, with contrition, 
that she looked pale and weary. " My child ! I have done 
very wrong. You are tired. Come, yes — come and see 
this. It won't look like anything to you yet." He made her 
sit on his stool, and lean back against a tree trunk. His 
gentie manner of solicitude made her think of her father, 
and she looked up in his face instead of at the picture. 

"What do you think of it, Miss Joyful ?" he said kindly, 
bending toward her. 

Her lips quivered. She struggled bravely for a moment 
to regain the mastery over herself, then suddenly covering 


her face with her hands she turned away, and leaned against 
the rough tree behind her in a passion of weeping. The 
nervous strain under which she had been for the past two 
weeks had cuhninated in this. 

Mark with difficulty restrained himself from gathering 
her up in his arms, in his tenderness toward the weeping 
chad. What should he do? What had he done? At 
last he lightly touched her hair. 

"Miss Joyful, don't, don't Were you too tired? I 
was a thoughtless brute." 

She was ashamed to cry before him, and could not lift 
her face. No, she was n't tired, and he was n't a brute. She 
would stand for him again in a minute. It was something 
else — she couldn't tell him. She didn't know herself 
what it was. So he sat apart on the seat in the beech 
tree, and read her books, and waited for her to grow calm. 
One was an old copy of Spenser's " Faerie Queene," and he 
began the quaint phrases describing Una, Joyful's sweet 
"Ladye Faire." Presently he glanced up and saw that 
she was gazing at his picture. 

"Well," he smiled on her, "what do you think of it?" 
Mark never forgot her face as it was at that moment — a 
very April of laughter breaking over it, while her eyes yet 
swam in tears. 

"I think I look a very fimny, dauby Undine there now. 
What are those long streaks of blue hanging down ? " 

"That? Oh, that's to be her dress." 

"Oh, are you going to make it like this I have on?" 

"Yes, almost. It's simple and good, why not?" 

"Why, I thought it would be all swinging and swirling 
about like waves in a brook when they come to a stone." 


^'Oh, but you must remember that the good people had 
dressed her in hiunan garments like a sensible little peasant 
This dress you have on is simple and straight — 1 11 put a 
kerchief around the neck/' 

"You must be right, but — don't you think she might 
put on something herself — that the wind would toss about ? 
Blue is all right, like the blue water. I see what you mean 
by all those yellow patches falling about her — a kind of 
rain of light — isn't it?" 

"Yes, Miss Joyful. Your intuitive sense may help me 
much. Now tell me how you would dress her." 

"I think even if they did dress her like the peasant 
children, she would still be different. She would find a 
long shining scarf or something that she could hang about 
her that would make you think of mist I 'U show you." 
She darted off among the great trees in the direction of the 
cottage. "I'll be back in a minute," she cried. 

Mark busied himself in bringing order out of the confused 
masses of color on his convas. He was disturbed by her 
sudden outburst of tears, and had decided to probe more 
deeply into the mjrsteries of her strange, wise child's soul, 
when she came swiftly back, her hair shaken out and 
floating in the wind. A long, diaphanous cloud wound 
about her head and, lightly twisted among the brown 
curling masses of her hair, fell tc her feet. It was a rare and 
ample web, shot with delicate tints of azure and gold and 
rose and green. Her slight figure and straight blue skirt 
were both concealed and revealed by its shifting, floating 
presence. Mark stared in amazement. 

"This is what I think. Undine might have had some- 
thing like this, made out of rainbows, which she would keep 


hidden away under the waterfall, to take out and hang 
around her when she sported among the shadows at sunset/' 

"Miss Joyful, wherever did you get such a wonderful 
web as that?" 

"It was mother's. Father brought it from away ojGf 
somewhere. I suppose I ought not to take it, but it 's mine. 
See. Will this be like Undine before her lover came?'' 
She hung swaying again, clinging to the wild vine as before, 
but with a wistful look in her eyes. 

"It's perfect, perfect. Miss Joyful. How do you think 
she should look after her lover came ?" A light had begun 
to break in on Mark's understanding. 

"Why, she would — perhaps she would be sad then." 

"Is that the way a maiden feels when she has a lover?" 

She swung half aroxmd away from him and gazed up into 
the top of the beech. "I know where there's a whip- 
poorwill's nest," she said, but in her heart she was wonder- 
ing if Mark himself were a lover. "He would make a 
fine one, and a true knight, too, since he was a fighter of 
the monsters," she thought. 

Mark glanced toward her as he worked on. "You did n't 
answer my question," he said gravely. 

"I can't. You know that. It 's different in these days. 
Then lovers had to ride away and fight, and achieve some 
very hard thing, to win a maiden's heart." 

"And what do they have to do nowadays?" 

"I don't know how it is out there in your old world," 
she said, laughing. " You should tell me that. Are n't you 
a lover ? I suppose every man has to be, sometime." 

"Why, Miss Joyful?" 

"Because. Undine found her soul, you know, when she 


loved. What are you fighting monsters for if you aren 't a 

"Ah, there you have me, Miss Joyful." 

"But you don't answer me." 

Mark looked at his watch. "You mustn't stand any 
longer to-day; you will be exhausted. You 've taken that 
position for me more than an hour. Sit here on this seat 
and I '11 make a bargain with you. If you '11 tell me why 
you wept a while ago, I '11 answer your question truly." 

"I can't tell you exactly why, because I don't know, my- 
self, but — something troubles me which I can't tell grand- 
mother. Don't ask me any more; I 'm afraid I shall cry 
again," and again came the April laughter with tears behind. 

Mark set a strong restraint upon himself to cover his 
most normal tenderness toward the child. "I won't tor- 
ment you to tell me, if you don't wish it," he said very 
gently, "but would n't it be well for you to tell your *Ladye 
Faire' about it?" 

"Oh, I can't!" cried Joyful, with a burning blush of 
shame. The more she thought of her ardent lover of the 
evening before, the more she shrank from speaking of him. 

Mark, with genuine anxiety for her, felt the truth, but 
he covered her confusion, leading her away for the time 
being into a pleasant path of speculation. 

"Now it 's my turn," he said, looking into her face smil- 
ingly. "Only since you tell me but half, I shall tell you 
but half and leave you to guess the rest as you leave me to 
do ; but first, answer me one more question. Why do you 
think every man must be a lover sometime ? " 

"Half the time I think things without knowing why I 
think them, but is n't it so ? Must n't a man be a true 


lover of some one or something before he ever achieves 
anything? Isn't that what it means to be a lover or a 
true knight ? " 

"Yes, Miss Joyful, yes. But few ever learn that sacred 
truth." They were silent then, and Mark sat with hands 
clasped about his knee, his gaze faed on a bunch of wild 
violets before him, thinking of a way that led to another 
place and another face, and wondering if he could ever 
reach his ideals along that path. 

Joyful brought him back by speaking again. "I don't 
think Undine's lover was much of a true knight, after 
all — do you?" 

"No, no, Miss Joyful." 

"And after she found her soul she was so sad, and before 
that she was joyous — just like that little finch up there." 

Mark looked at the bird. "Yes. Wouldn't she have 
been better off without her soul, then ? " 

She smiled. "That was what I used to think, but 
now — now that father and mother are gone, I imderstand. 
You see, my father was a true knight. He rescued her 
as a knight should, and they were true, true lovers, beautiful 
to think about. I think about them many times at night." 
She drew a long, tremulous sigh, half a sob. "I like to 
have them to think about, and now they have each other 
still, but if they were n't souls, you know, they would have 
gone out, and I would not have them any more, either." 

" You are a poet. Miss Joyful, and you have foimd out the 
true secret of life." He lifted his height from the low seat, 
and began putting his tools together. It was near noon, 
and his light was all changed. He could paint no more. 

"Are you going ? But you have n't told me yet" 


'^ So I have n't/' he said, scraping vigorously at his 
palette. " No. Well, I am a lover in one sense — of every- 
thing that is beautiful, so far I can say yes — and I can say 
also that I 'm a true knight to do battle for it, or hope to be. 
But — " He waited, and she turned her glowing, expec- 
tant face toward his. He looked down at her. ^'Ah, 
thus must I make Undine look at her lover." He thought 
he would try to remember the pose and expression. 

"But what, Mr. Thorn?" she cried eagerly. 

"I said I should tell you only half. You must guess the 
rest. Miss Joyful." 

"Ah, ha I If this is half, there must be as much more. 
Surely you are a lover, surely. You must be, you know, 
to be any good." 

He laughed out now. "You are a romantic maiden, 
Miss Joyful. Why must I be a lover to be any good ? " 

" Oh, you know you must. It 's one of the things I think, 
but can't explain. To love beauty — that 's all right; you 
must, to be an artist ; but to be great, truly, must n't you 
be a lover of a soul ? A soul must be greater than jiist 
beauty, or Undine would have been enough without it. 
She had wondrous beauty, you know. Everything around 
us has beauty — this has," she stooped and picked a violet 
from the cluster at her feet and held it out to him. He 
took it, but his eyes were fixed on her radiant face. He 
dropped it in his box and, gathering his scattered brushes, 
closed it in with them. 

Joyful leaned back against the beech trunk, with the old 
wistful look in her eyes. "Oh, I have thought about it 
often and often. I know I am right, Mr. Thorn — I feel 
as if my mother had told me this." 


Mark longed to learn more of the secret before he left 
her. He connected her outburst of tears with Jack Stod- 
dard's return to Woodbury Center. Surely she must be 
saved from him, he thought. He put up his traps carefully, 
and then stood a moment looking down at her, his heavy 
brows drawn together. 

*' Yes, Miss Joyful, you 're surely right in that, but now 
— let me ask you once more to go with that trouble of 
yours — whatever it is — to your *Ladye Faire.' Tell 
her all about it, won't you?" 

Again the color rushed into her face. "Oh, I can't — I 
can't ! I could tell you easier than any one else — I don't 
know why — but I could." 

"Then tell me," he said gladly, sitting again at her side. 
"Tell me as if you were my little true friend." Uncon- 
sciously he put out his hand to draw her toward him, but 
as quickly held it back. 

"You know Nathanael Stoddard?" 


"It's his brother. He's my lover — and oh, I don't 
want him to be. I 'm afraid it 's wrong of me, but I can't, 
I can't." 

"Wrong of you?" exclaimed Mark, strangely moved, 
arid still glad at heart. "Certainly not, my child. Why is 
it wrong?" 

"Because — because — Oh, I've thought it all out — 
he must be a lover to be a good man, and sq I 'm afraid I 
ought to say yes, but I can't. I 've known him always, 
too, and we 've been friends, always — but I can't," she 
murmured, between sobs. "I might ask grandfather, but 
he 'd be angry, I know, and say something cruel to Jack, 


and it would be my fault. I can't tell grandmother, and 
I can't tell Elizabeth." 

"My dear — dear — little friend," Mark said, and 
stopped. She looked up questioningly in his face. " What 's 
the reason you can't tell Miss Drew or her mother. Miss 

She turned her face away again. " Because I 'm ashamed. 
Oh, dear, — can't you see ? Why do you ask me ? " 

"But why should you be?" 

"I don't know; but I am. I always thought maidens 
were very happy when they had lovers, but I'm not. 
Something must be wrong about it." 

Mark pondered. Why should this lovely little one be 
left so alone ? At last he said : "I '11 tell you what I think 
about it. You should tell this Jack, or whoever he is, that 
he must do some great, good thing first, to prove that he is 
really a true lover, and a brave knight, as the maidens did 
of old. I think that 's a very good way for maidens to do, 
myself — it would save them a great deal of unhappiness 
if they would all do it in these days — and you follow your 
own heart. Don't let him or any one else persuade you 
against it. Now remember. Perhaps he 's no true lover. 
Let him show his colors first. I have no right to ask it — 
but I wish I might have your promise to this. It 's very 
important for you." He rose and again stood looking down 
at her. "Miss Joyful, will you tell me or your 'Ladye 
Faire' if he continues to come to you?" 

She gathered the rainbow clouds of her scarf about her, 
and tossed back her heavy hair. "Yes, yes," she said 
qmckly, "I promise. He said he was going off to be gone 
a year, perhaps two, so I sha' n't see him for a long time. If 


he were great like the knights of old, I would n't have to 
promise him anything yet, would I ? But — if he should 
achieve some great good thing," she cried in dismay, 
"what should I do then?" 

"Don't be in the least troubled about that now. Then 
will be soon enough," he replied, with inward amusement. 
"By that time you will have more wisdom, you know." 
He gave her his hand. "Thank you for this sitting. I Ve 
two more ideas for Undine. May I come to you again?" 

" Indeed, yes. I love to stand for you. And — and — 
thank you for caring, and helping me." 

Mark thought her a veritable Undine, as she passed on, 
now in shadow and now in light, toward the cottage. Then 
he started off through the woods, absorbed in an artist's 



" O I Goodly golden chayn^, wherewith yfere 
The vertues linked are in lovely wize ; 
And noble mindes of yore allyed were. 
In brave persuitt of chevalrous emprize, 
That none did others safety despize. 
Nor aid envy to him, in need that stands ; 
But friendly each did others praise devize, 
How to advaunce with favourable hands, 
As this good prence redeemed the Redcrosse knight from bands." 

— The Faerie Queene, 

It was near the middle of that afternoon, when Mr. 
Somers drove along the wagon way toward Heatherby's 
cove. The old man had brought home a small draught of 
fish, which Somers was to haul over to Willoughby Junc- 
tion. Leisurely, as usual, he jogged along, giving an occa- 
tional flap to the reins as a reminder to the mare of his 
presence, which brought only the customary response of a 
jerk of the tail to the sleepy suggestion for more speed. 
The animal hung her head low, and seemed wholly occupied 
with the attentions of a single fly, earliest harbinger of the 
swarms to come later on, which buzzed about her ears 
with imremitting teasing, thus fulfilling its mission in life 
of keeping the mare awake, and her brain in a state of 

Suddenly the beast, hitherto supposed to be absolutely 
impervious to the sensation of fear, gave a frightened 



snort, and swerved violently to one side, galloping off at a 
tangent, with unwonted fire, until she brought up with a 
jerk as the spring wagon became locked between two 

"Whoa, Fan. Ye dum beast, what ails ye?" cried Mr. 
Somers, as he sat on the high seat, much shaken up by the 
quick boxmdng over stumps and ruts. "Why, what ails 
ye, Fan?" he asked again, staring about, but the mare 
gave no answer. She had quickly recovered from her 
fright, and was struggling after a tuft of grass just beyond 
the reach of her nose. 

"Must 'a been simap'n. Never see the critter act so." 
He climbed slowly down, and proceeded to tie her fast. 
"Ye can't get away 's I see, but the's no tellin' what ye will 
do, takin' such a contrary idee into ye're head." He went 
all about the animal, examining her headstall, her ears, 
and every strap and buckle. Then he stood and nuninated 
a few minutes. "Must 'a been sump'n scared her back 
there," he said, and sauntered away to investigate. 

Nothing to be seen on the road — no sign of living thing. 
Presently he discovered the artist's color box and easel 
on the other side, and a little farther in the woods a gray 
heap lying beside a huge moss-covered bowlder, on a bed 
of ferns and wild-wood vines. As he approached the spot, 
a slow fear crept and grew upon him, until at last he bent 
over the heap, drawn, fascinated, with rising hair and 
chattering teeth, his whole lean frame quivermg as with an 

A man was lying there as if he had been thrown. His 
coat had been spread over his face and hands, but his 
hair, clotted with blood, showed underneath the collar. 


Somers stood paralyzed, not daring to lift the coat 
and look in a dead man's face. Then he turned and 
fled back to the road, and running frantically, set up a long 
quavering halloo — then another and another. At last a 
workman in the farthest recesses of the Vood, whom 
Elizabeth had hired to trim out dead timber, heard the call. 
Its note of terror struck through his thick skull, and he 
came running. 

"What ails ye?" cried Somers, dancing about in the 
middle of the road in a kind of frenzy. "What ails ye to be 
so long a-comin' ? Look there. There 's been a murder. 
Lift up the coat, will ye, 'nd see who 't is." The more 
phlegmatic workman went heavily forward and lifted the 
coat, while Somers stood aloof. Then he knelt and felt of 
the prostrate form — lifted the hands and dropped them 
again, and laid his ear to the heart. 

"Come along, he 's not dead," he said at last. 

Then as suddenly as Mr. Somers' fear had come upon 
him it left him, and he grew sane, and his normal kindness 
and gentleness returned to him. 

"Why, I declare 'ts that painter 'ts stoppin' over to our 
house. Take care. Don't haul him around till ye know 
where he 's hurt. I '11 back the horse out, 'nd we 'U take 
him over to Heatherby's." 

They looked about them and perceived that close to the 
road the bushes had been broken and trampled, and that 
the woimded man had been dragged across to the spot 
where they had foimd him. What could it all mean? 
Somers stirred himself, and after much backing and coaxing, 
and lifting of the hind end of the wagon about, the horse 
and vehicle were at last brought near where they could lift 


the unconscious man in, and he was carried quickly on the 
short distance to Heatherby's cove. 

''How's this?" called the old man, as he stood waiting 
beside his hamper of fish, which he had long since packed 
and brought from the boat. "Ain't ye putty late? 
Calc'late 't ye c'n make the night train?" 

"I got a queer load f'r ye this time," cried Somers, in 
agitated tones. "Brought ye that painter 'bout done to 
death, yonder in th' woods." 

"For the Land's sakes!" exclaimed grandmother 
Heatherby, bringing her ample figure close to the spring 
wagon. "It's Mr. Thorn. Whatever in this world! 
Joy, Joy," she called, running back to the gate, "put on the 
tea kettle 'nd get some boilin' water 's quick 's ye can. 
Here, father, you make these men stir themselves 'nd 
get him up to bed quick — 'nd Somers, you just hustle in 
that basket of fish 'nd get over to Willoughby Junction 's 
fast 's ye're mare 'U run, 'nd fetch Dr. Welch. He 's gone 
over there to see a woman. Now be careful, father, don't 
let his head hang over so. Let me — there." And so the 
poor limp figure was gently carried up to the neatest little 
white spare room, and laid on the best bed. 

And there he was restored to consciousness, and ten- 
derly nursed, and when the doctor came and dressed his 
woimds, and said to the old lady, "It 'U be several weeks 
before he can be removed. Shall I send you a nurse ? " 
her reply was, "He 's all right where he is, 'nd I never saw 
the time yet when I needed help takin' care of the sick." 

"Marthy," called the old man, from the foot of the 
stairway, "hadn't you better let the doctor fetch along 
some one to help you ? " 


''No. I calc'late 't I 'm spry enough yet to nurse him, 
'nd I 'd rather not have a stranger rummagin' th' house, 'nd 
standin' round in my way." 

" Well, better let 'er have it 's she wants. Marthy always 
does know what 's best." 

The doctor quietly stepped back into the room and 
closed the door after him. '^ Yoimg man," he said, bending 
over Mark gravely, " is there anything you would like 
to say about this ? " 

Mark slowly opened his eyes, and a little smile lighted his 
pallid face. ''No, I guess not, thank you." Then, noting 
a frown of suspicion darken the physician's face, he added 
weakly — "Better not say much, if you can avoid it, 
Doctor. You see — it was — a mistake. The fellow who 
— struck me — was — laboring under a — hallucination, 
I think he — he was scarcely responsible — and at any 
rate — I bear him no ill will." 

But the doctor seemed not to be satisfied. "This is a 
grave matter, sir," he said. "I have a certain responsibility 
to discharge, and your kin folks may demand more of me 
than the explanation you have given." 

"I see — but — I'm in no danger — not dangerously 

"Not unless you have some internal injury that has not 
appeared yet, but two broken bones and a cracked skull 
show pretty rough handling." 

"I was taken unawares, or he wouldn't have succeeded 
so well," said Mark, with a touch of chagrin. 

"To strike a man unawares is foul play." 

"Ah, yes. Well, never mind my relatives, Doctor, 
I '11 take care of them, and as for any internal injuries, I 


guess I 'm all sotind. What bones are broken ? I must have 
been wandering when you fixed me up." 

"Your upper left arm and collar bone, both. The arm 
is a bad fracture. What were you struck with?" 

"I don't know. I hardly had time to look at the fellow 
before I was gone." 

"You were struck on the arm and on the head. You 
must have broken your collar bone when you fell. Are you 
sure you know who attacked you ?" 

"Now, Doctor, about that — I know well enough, but 
I have good reasons — honorable ones — not for his sake, 
nor my own — . Nothing can be gained by following it 
up but trouble for parties who are in no way to blame. 
Just — kindly shut up — the fellows who found — me, will 
you? Tell them what you please — but shut them up. 
I trust to — your courtesy to do this for me." 

Dr. Welch was a gray-haired, pimctilious man of the old 
school, who was as much an institution in the village as 
the gray stone church, the rector, or the Drews. He bowed, 
took up his black leather case, and turned away. "Let me 
caution you against any excitement, or using any stimulant, 
other than that I have ordered in case the heart action nms 
low — which is not Ukely." Pausing at the door he looked 
back and hesitated, then gently closed it after him. "I '11 
call again in the morning," he said to Mrs. Heatherby. 
^*Keep him in absolute quiet Best not question him — 
he's weak now. Let him wait. Good day." 

Day after day, in silence, Mark lay in the darkened 
room. Sometimes his mind wandered a little, but usually 
he was quite himself. Tended carefully by the old lady, 
who softly bustle^ in and out ministering to his necessities 


with plump, motherly hands that had dimples in them like 
a baby's, Mark felt himself growing to love her, but he 
found words too mean and small to express his thanks, so 
he was still, " Hers is the sweet, placid courtesy with which 
angels must minister, only not so cold and far away," he 
thought. Once, when she was adjusting the bandages 
about his head, he kissed the hand which came so near his 
lips. The kiss brought a pink flush into the smooth old 

"There, now, Mr. Thorn. Bless yer heart, ye 're bein' 
a baby." 

"You 're too good to me, and I have no words with which 
to thank you." 

Her firm mouth grew very tender, and her lip quivered 
slightly. " It 's not thanks I 'm needin'. Have n't I nursed 
a boy of my own? Now you just sleep a bit," and she 
went out. Ah, the secrets of a mother's heart ! She was 
waiting on her boy — bringing him back to her touch — 
opening her heart to the stranger, because it had so long 
ached for him. Never before had Mark heard her mention 
him. She buried her sorrow in her great heart and was 

Sometimes Mark heard the old man's hearty voice 
downstairs, and sometimes, as he grew stronger, they visited 
together. He never saw Joyful, but he heard her light 
step pass his door many times a day. She seemed to have 
grown strangely silent. He never heard her sing, now, and 
scarcely could he hear the tones of her voice, it was so low. 
She was always busy at the household tasks, while her 
grandmother was caring for Mark. She was glad to do this 
and did not seem unhappy, but she was grave, and seemed to 


have suddenly grown older. Her grandfather noticed the 
change, and thinking she was not well, persuaded her when 
he could, to come out with him while he worked about his 
boat and the little pier; but she spent most of her days 
quietly working in the cottage and garden, and every morn- 
ing a few fresh flowers which she had gathered were brought 
up to Mark. 

One day, about three weeks after his hurt. Joyful brought 
up his breakfast. It was the first time he had seen her, 
and his face lighted with pleasure. He was much stronger 
and had begun to feel that he need not cause so much 

''It's a shame for you and your grandmother to have 
to wait on me in this way," he said. ''Pm quite able to 
come down, and if I could only get the bandage off this arm, 
I could help myself." 

"Grandmother won't be able to see you to-day," she 
replied. "But you must n't mind our waiting on you. It 
would be very cruel in us not to." She looked at him 
pityingly ; his face had grown so white and thin with the 
confinement, and his dark, unshaven chin only made him 
look the more haggard. "It was dreadful for you to be 
hurt, and you might have died, if Mr. Somers had n't found 
you. Is there anything more I can bring you?" She 
stood looking critically at the food she had placed before 
him. "Oh, your poor hand is tied so you can't use it. 
I '11 butter your roll and open your egg for you. Grand- 
father took his boat out yesterday. You know he must, 
now and then, while the weather 's good. Sometimes, when 
he has a good catch, he stays late. He has n't come back 
yet, and so — you remember I told you a little about my 


grandmother — it always makes her sick when he does n't 
come back at night — and she 's so bad to-day. I hope 
he 'U come soon." 

"I hope so, indeed, Miss Joyful. Thank you. Don't 
make yourself more trouble and work, waiting on me, when 
she needs you. I 'm learning to be quite expert with my 
one hand. I 'U be able to do a little work soon, I think. 
See here. Miss Joyful, why are you so grave ? Is it any of 
the trouble we were speaking of that day?" 

She smiled a wan little smile. "No, not that." 

"Is it because you're afraid your grandfather has met 
with an accident ? " 

"No, Mr. Thorn. He alwajrs comes back, he's such a 
good sailor, and he always has Jasper with him." 

"Who is Jasper?^' 

"He 's a man who has sailed with grandfather for years 
and years. He lives in that little hut away out on the 
point. You've seen it. He never comes here, nor sees 
any one but grandfather. He alwajrs goes with him, and 
then leaves in his little boat and rows to the point when 
they come home, and grandfather comes in the rest of the 
way alone. We make his bread for him. He thinks he 
is a hermit." 

"Does anybody ever visit him?" 

"He won't let them in if they do — only grandfather." 

"But that does n't tell me why you are sad. Miss Joyful. 
Is it your grandmother being ill?" 

"No, she always has a spell when grandfather doesn't 
come back when she thinks he should. That has to be. 
You see, she thinks all of her kindred are to die at sea — 
and all have but grandfather — only she has set her heart, 


she says, on lying beside him on land at the last, like a 
Christian, with a headstone, and name and date on it." 

"I mustn't keep you here talking when she may need 
you, but I wish you were not so grave. I liked the smiles 
and the laughter best. Won't you bring them back again ? 
— or at least give me a reason for their disappearance?" 
" She does n't need me. She only fastens herself in her 
room and sees no one, and won't eat. I know she takes out 
all the things that were my father's when he was a boy, and 
sits there with them all spread around her. Grandfather 
climbed up once and looked in at the window — we were 
so frightened because she stayed so long, and we heard no 
sound. She used to be worse, but now she only has a spell 
when he is off too long with the boat. We never talk 
about this, you know. They think in the village that she 
has dreadful headaches, and they call it 'Mrs. Heatherby's 
injBLrmity.' Only Elizabeth and her mother know." 

Joyful had busied herself in setting his room in order, and 
now she shook out the muslin curtain, and tied it back, 
looking wistfully off over the cove. "There, there 's grand- 
father's boat," she cried. "Can you see it? Jasper is 
iust putting off for his point. And Than Stoddard 's coming ; 
I heard the gate close. He 's been here every day, but he 
would n't see you imtil Dr. Welch thought best." 

"Oh, send him up. But first. Miss Joyful, wait one 
moment — it is n't your grandmother — you 've been used 
to that — have you any new trouble? Or is it the old 
one? Since you were good enough to tell me about it, 
you must forgive me for asking. It is because I care, and 
wish to see you happy. Has he been back here again?" 

"No, Mr. Thorn. I almost wish he had. I 'm — It 's 


because you were hurt. What was it? Who did it? 
Was it — Was it in any way my fault? I've been 
afraid — " She leaned trembling against the door post, 
and covered her face with her hands. "I don't like to say 
— but — I wish I knew who hurt you." 

Mark's heart was stirred within him. Why had he 
ever drifted into her life? Was it to cause her trouble? 
"Your fault?" he cried. "Never! How could a man's 
quarrel be your fault ? It was just an unfortimate circum- 
stance that a fellow who fancied he had a grievance against 
me found me and attacked me so near your door. That 
I was thrown into the merciful hands of you good people 
may have saved my life. Will you think of that and be 
happy again? I believe no better thing could have hap- 
pened to me than to have been brought here for peace. 
There, Nathanael is knocking. Go now, and stop fearing, 
and be happy for me, Miss Joyful." 

She stepped back and took up the tray of dishes. Her 
eyelashes were wet with tears, but her lips smiled. "Thank 
you," she said, and bore them out. 

"Thank you for a fine breakfast," he called after her. 
He marveled at himself, as he dropped his head back 
upon the pillow, that he could allow himself to be so wrought 
upon by that smiling, tearful glance. His heart beat 
rapidly — violently, and the wound in his head throbbed. 
"I must get out of this. I 've grown too weak to be self- 
controlled," he thought. Then Nathanael entered, and he 
roused himself. 

"This is good of you, Stoddard. You 're just the man I 
want to see. Take that chair where I can look at you." 

Nathanael slowly took the thin outstretched hand, and 


looked down at him, holding it a moment before releasing 
it. Then he drew the chair closer to the bedside, and sat 
down. "I've been here every day to see how you were 
getting on, but now I see you, I don't know what to say." 

''I 'd give a goodly sum, if I had it, to spend a day with 
you in your bam studio. I 'm wasting a deal of time these 
days. Look here. Can't you help me dress? A man 
grows weak, mentally and physically, l3dng abed. I've 
got to be stirring." 

* ' I will, if it 's best. Don t be rash. I shall go away again 
if my coming excites you. That blow on your head was a 
cruel one. There, be patient, I '11 get your things. When 
you 're strong enough I want to ask you some questions." 

"Ask them now. I 'm stronger than I look." 

"You said once you 'd be my friend, and I took you at 
your word. According to my way of looking at it, if you 're 
my friend, you '11 give me a chance to do something for you. 
I don't want to intrude in any way on your secrets, but I 'd 
like to serve you. Is there — do you wish any action 
taken — or — well, there must be some reason for this, 
you know, and all I mean is, do you want a man's help ?" 

"Yes, I want a man's help this minute. Take out your 
knife and cut this bandage so I can get my arm free. I 
want to put on my coat, and I can't, with my arm tied in 
this shape." 

"See here. If you're going to get into a frenzy, I'll 
leave. Did Dr. Welch say you might remove it to-day?" 

"He said nothing, except that he would not return until 
Saturday. I can't wait three days longer, making trouble 
here. The old man 's oflf, and Mrs. Heatherby 's ill, and 
poor little Joyful has more care than she should. I 'm no 


baby. Cut it off, I say, and dress me up. There, that 's 
right. You 're the best fellow in the world." 

'' Better keep it up in the same position as much as 
possible. Here, now your coat 's on, let me fix it up again>" 
Nathanael pulled a large bandanna handkerchief from his 
pocket and carefully tied the arm in its former position. 
''This is one of Jack's foreign acquisitions. He bestowed 
it on me as a parting gift. Now, with your hollow eyes 
and bandit expression, it makes a fine effect; only you 
should have a similar one for your head." 

Mark laughed inordinately. ''I'm wondering what he 
would think if he knew you had used it to bind up my 
arm," he said. 

" Oh, he 'd say it was all right. He 's the best-hearted 
fellow in the world." 

Mark set his lips grimly. "He is, is he? I think I 
prefer his brother, myself." 

"That 's your choice, you know. No doubt Joyful thinks 

"Ah, there's where you're mistaken, friend." Mark 
had grown more pallid with his exertions, and now he 
sank back upon his bed, weak with pain. 

"Haven't you any whisky? Where is it? Lie still, 
I'll find it. I knew you ought not to do this. You're 
not ready to get up yet, man." 

"Yes, I am. There's the whisky. I'm all right. I 
must get out of doors. I 'm not used to being shut in this 
way — it tells on a man's nerves." 

"I '11 come up here every day, and look after you, until 
you 're able to be out, if you think you 're being a burden to 


''And leave your weeds growing, and your father on the 
rampage over them ? Not a bit. I 'm going back to Mrs. 
Somers' and take care of myself." 

''Do you realize this is the first time I 've seen you since 
you were hiu*t, and I can see how it has told on yoiu: strength 
and vitality ? You Ve got to be patient, and I 'm going to 
leave you now. Lie still and rest. Lie still, I say." 

Mark muttered something under his breath, and began to 
remove the bandage from his head. Nathanael seized his 

"I will not allow you to go any farther," he cried. "Are 
you a fool ? Lie still." 

Mark resigned himself into the hands of his friend. 
"Yes, I 'm a fool. You Ve hit it. But see here, Stoddard, 
I have something to talk to you about. If I can't go out, 
I must talk. Hand me that portfolio. Here are some 
letters. Sit down again and — wait — throw open that 
window. We'll have more air. Don't look so worried, 
man; I 'm stronger than I look. It 's that damned arm — 
it's paining me. I ought not to have disturbed it yet. 
Now this is what I want you to see. I've been doing 
a Httle correspondence about these inventions, and inci- 
dentally about the inventor, and here are three communica- 
tions from friends in New York, and one in Boston. Wait, 
take this one first and tell me what you think of it." 

Nathanael took the letters but did not open them. " Mr. 
Thorn," he said, "you are giving your thought and strength 
for me when I ought to be using mine for you. Let 's drop 
my affairs. You have n't answered a question I asked when 
I first came in, and which I came here to ask. It 's my 
opinion you evaded it." 


Mark frowned. "Yes, if you will know, I did evade it, 
and I hoped you 'd forget to repeat it. To tell the truth, I 
can't answer it. Don't be suspicious of me. I 'm honor- 
able, although — '* 

"I don't doubt it." 

"Thank you. Although the appearances are against 
me, the affair seems questionable on both sides. I have 
no doubt there are great stories afloat in the house of 

Nathanael smiled. "That need n't trouble you." 

"It doesn't. Give me your hand. You're gold. Now 
read the letters. One of them requires an immediate reply, 
as you will see." 

Nathanael slowly read the typewritten sheet, then, 
appearing suddenly to wake as if from a dream, he re-read 
it in haste. The paper trembled in his hand, and as he 
looked up at Mark, his eyes sent out their blue flash. The 
whole man seemed to undergo an instant transformation, 
from a weary, heavy dreamer, to an alert, eager being, 
full of hope and nerve. Mark watched him with a pleased 

"Now, read the others," he said. "You see, I gave them 
to imderstand that they must take the burden of manu- 
facture, giving you only the superintendence. Most 
inventors are impractical fellows. You must prove to 
them that you are not." 

Nathanael glanced through the rest of the correspondence 
rapidly. He seined no longer able to plod. He was 

"They wish to see me ; well, I wish to see them." 

"Do you know an3rthing about nuning engineering?" 


Nathanael replied with a laugh and a shrug, '^I ought to. 
I worked hard enough to gain a little knowledge. You see, 
after I left Harvard, I corresponded with a man there who 
later became one of the professors in Boston Tech, and 
through him I got a special chance. I worked at home in 
that bam room — Heavens, how I worked ! Yes, I have all 
a man can get, outside of the actual experience." 

"How long did you work that way?" 

"Two years — a little over two years, night and day." 

"And carried on the farm, too?" 

"And carried on the farm — indifferently well. I worked 
for the mere love of it, without hope — except in a vague 
way — that, if the conditions of my life ever should change, 
I should then be ready. Sometimes I Ve felt as if my feet 
were grown rooted to that stone heap of a farm, while my 
heart and brain were — well — were winged for flight, yet 
couldn't rise." 

"I guess you were about right. Now, the thing for you 
to do is to see if you can get your feet out of the soil. Will 
you go to New York to see this man?" 

Nathanael's face wore the brown and red coat of the sun 
and wind, except on the forehead where his hat had pro- 
tected it. At Mark's question this fair white forehead 
became as red as his cheeks, and the veins stood out. He 
rose, and strode to the window, where he stood looking out 
on the sea, his elbows resting on the top of the sash, and his 
chin in his hands. Mark divined the hindrance. 

" I could make it easy for you to go, but you would n't let 
me. You 're as proud as Lucifer." 

"No," said Nathanael, "I wouldn't." 

"Ask your father for it." 



''Then borrow it from him, at a good round rate of 

''I made up my mind, when Jack returned this last time, 
that I 'd make a change in my way of living. Jack 's had 
— Well, that 's nothing — neither here nor there, but as 
for father, I 'm really no service to him now. We only 
irritate one another. I see my duty difiEerently — condi* 
tions have changed — and I 've changed, thanks to your 
companionship. I '11 go to New York — I '11 go, if I have to 
ride on freight trains, — walk, — crawl on my hands and 

Mark was reminded of Somers' description of the young 
man's mother. ''I'll take this butter to the station, if I 
have to crawl on my hands and knees," and he could 
imagine the same steel blue lightning in her eyes. 

"That's right," he cried, sitting up. "I'm not known 
among my friends as a man of much business ability, but 
they give me credit for a few brilliant streaks of common 
sense. They need an engineer at once — go at once. 
Maybe, before two weeks are over, you will be in New 
Mexico or Montana. Go to-day. Take the evening train 
from Willoughby Junction. Have you a man on the 


"Never mind — leave the plow in the furrow and the 
hoe in the potato patch. Go." 

Nathanael laughed. "No need to be quite so reckless. 
I can get Sam Hart to work it on shares, and — the only 
thing is to get the money — poor father. He can't under^ 
stand. But 1 11 get it." His face darkened, with a mo* 


mentary feeling of bitterness, as he thought of Jack's debts, 
and the money he had used for them. 

"What can I do for you now, before I leave? This 
visit may be the death of you, as it is." 

''Nothing. I 'm strong enough to go downstairs. Guess 
I will. Give me your assistance, and — do you see any- 
thing of Heatherby's boat?" 

"It 's just drawing up to the pier." 

"Then never mind about helping me down; I'll wait 
until he comes in. Give me my writing materials. We 'U 
wire Downs and Hubert that you '11 be there to-morrow. 
You see, if you get the position, you may be able to put 
your invention to practical use, and that will be a big thing 
for you. There, send that message before you see your 
father; then the die will be cast." 

Nathanael took Mark's hand and released it reluctantly* 
"Sometime," he said, with emotion, "sometime I will 
show what I think now of you. At present — I am — your 
debtor — in one sense I shall always be." 

As Mark lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes, he 
heard the gate swing after the young man's hurrying steps, 
and then he heard Joyful's voice speaking at her grand- 
mother's door. 

"Grandmother, grandmother. They're back all safe. 
See, look out of the window. They 're taking out the fish. 
Come, grandmother, Mr. Thorn wants you, I know he 
does. There was no one but me to go to him this morn- 

Evidently she received no answer, for Mark heard her 
go slowly away, and all the rest of that day he saw nothing 
of the old lady. Later, he persuaded Mr. Heatherby to 


assist him below, and sat with the old man, while Joyful 
waited on them at the noon meal. Then he spent the rest 
of the day in the large rocker, and Joyful passed in and out, 
busy and neat, but still grave. Her grandfather let his 
big, jovial voice sound through the house, and Mark noticed 
that now and again he stood at the foot of the stairs and 

" I 'm hearkin' to see if she turns her key in the door. It 's 
always best for her to hear me about same 's usual. She 
kind of gets over her spell by degrees so." Then he took 
a hoe and went out in the garden in sight of the old lady's 
window, and worked among his toinato vines, and sang, 
the afternoon long, until Somers came for the fish. 

Nathanael was with him. He had had a stormy inter- 
view with his father, but had won at last. Then he had 
gone over to see Elizabeth. His eyes still shone from that 
visit, but he had not said to her what his heart wished. He 
would wait, and with the repression of his impulses a certain 
appearance of distance and coldness had come into his 
manner, of which he was himself imaware, but which she 
interpreted wrongly. She had been warmly commendatory 
of his action, and was full of praise for the friend who had 
so helped him. She had said something about Joyful, also, 
which he had vaguely acquiesced in, wondering why she 
said it. 

Now as he jogged off in Somers' democrat wagon, his box 
of models and drawings rattling behind him, he was rehears- 
ing to himself their short, hurried interview — every word 
she had said. Had he seen Joyful to-day? Yes, just a 
moment. What a pity her grandmother was imder a cloud 
again — Why need Mr. Heatherby be off and stay that 


way ? But of oourse he must keep earning while he could 
She had seen very little of Joy lately, and must have her 
with them more, as soon as Mr. Thorn was well enough. 
Joy must be very busy now. He opined she was — he 
was on his way there now; had Elizabeth any message to 
send ? No, she would walk over there, to-morrow, perhaps. 

He had wished to tell her more of his hopes, but she had 
held him back, even while her strong, warm nature was 
yearning toward him. He felt conflicting influences both 
repelling and drawing him, and at the gate was moved to 
return, in the hope of securing a firmer foothold within the 
fortress of her gentle reserve. Might — might he drop 
her a line? Certainly, she would be interested to hear. 
And when he returned he might — he hoped he would have 
a more important thing to tell her — he should come to 
her at once ? Indeed yes, and while he was away would 
he remember her lectxure, and not hold himself too cheaply ? 
He would not forget, nor ever hold himself cheaply again, 
while she saw worth in him. 

Had he gone too far ? Would she resent ? He trembled 
to fall at her feet — to do any wild act to break her calm ; 
but the fatal fetters of his training and inheritance held him 
stiff, with head erect. He could only extend his hand with 
conventional dignity; yet, as his fingers closed over hers 
she felt the tremor of vital energy, and looked quickly into 
the blue eyes fixed on her face. 

Why should he look at her in that way? He should 
keep such glances for Joyful. And so they parted. 



"O foolish ph3rsick, and unfruitfull paine, 
That heals up one, and makes another wound I 
She has htut thigh to him recurd againe, 
But hurt his hart, the which before was sound, 
Through an unwary dart which did rebound 
From her faire eyea and gratious countenaunce." 

— The Faerie Queene, 

The next morning Mark did not rise. He had been rash 
the day before, and his head troubled him ; but he felt more 
at ease, for he heard Joyful's song imder his window again, 
as he had heard it that first morning, which now seemed 
so long ago. 

Then the trees were bare, now even the tardy locust was 
in full bloom. The sweet scent of the blossoms came in at 
the window, and a 4nmken bee droned his complaint as 
he butted his head against the glass. Mark watched the 
heavy fellow drowsily. Why had he come in there, in the 
first place, and in the next, why did he stay when he had 
only to crawl roimd the edge of the sash and spread his 
wings in absolute freedom ? He was just going to draw a 
vague comparison between the bee and himself, when he 
perceived his good angel and nurse looking smilingly down 
on him. 

She showed no trace of her aberration of the day before. 



Either she chose to ignore it, or was unaware of it. She 
seemed eminently sane, and her normal self, while bathing 
his face and his free hand, and chatted cheerily. 

She complained of his matted hair. It had not been so 
before; what had he been doii^ overnight ? How ever had 
he got his arm free. Men were so impatient ! He ought 
not to have done a thing without the doctor's orders. Now, 
more 'n likely, it would be weeks longer getting well. Had 
father cut the bandage for him ? It would be just like father 
to do anything on earth. He 'd indulge Joy to her death. 

Mark assured her it was entirely his own fault. He had 
persuaded Nathanael to do it. 

The dear old lady was mystified and troubled. "Than 
Stoddard 's brought your mail over every day, but I would n't 
let him up till I saw you strong enough, 'nd here he 's slipped 
in 'nd helped oflf this bandage without my seein' him. He 
might 'a known better, even if you didn't." 

Mark liked her motherly scolding, and smiled up at her. 

"There now!" she went on, smoothing his bed and 
arranging his pillows. "You're nothing but a great boy, 
for all you reach most across the room. How your bed is 
torn up ! You must 'a been dreadfully restless." 

" I 'm getting well, and it 's time you turned me out." 

"Just you keep your patience till I do." She spied the 
bee and helped it over the window sash and out. "It's 
the locust 't draws them. The tree 's alive and humming 
with them." 

Mark refrained from making any further allusion to the 
doings of the previous day. He lay quietly gazing out at 
the serene sky, and up at the fragrant, swarming tree. 
He could hear the buzzing of myriad wings, like a distant 



vibrant undertone of many violins, now louder, now softer, 
as the breeze playing among the leaves of the silver-leaf 
poplar rose and fell. Now and again a clear note of Joyful's 
song, as she sewed under the trees, gave voice to the quiver- 
ing harmony, and a sense of absolute peace entered into his 
very soul — a delicious sense of rest. 

There were letters lying imder his hand unopened. He 
dreaded to allow any intrusion from the world without. 
The old lady had gone, carrying his breakfast dishes with 
her^ and he heard the light clatter as she washed them 
below in the open summer kitchen. Tempted by Joyful'? 
song, he rose and looked down at her as she sat' on the 
ground, leaning against the rough black trunk of the old 
poplar, intent on her work. She was making buttonholes 
in the bands of blue gingham aprons, and she wore the pink 
dimity frock Elizabeth had fashioned for her, cut square at 
the neck, and frilled, showing her round, white throat. 
She looked like a belated apple blossom that had drifted 
down from somewhere out of the skies. 

Weak and weary, he lay down again, and closed his eyes, 
shutting thus within himself the beautiful picture. Me- 
chanically his hand closed over one of the unopened letters, 
crushing the delicately scented missive which he had been 
idly fingering all the morning. Presently he roused him- 
self. This lotus dream of peace must end, however sweet in 
the passing. The poem of this summer morning, with 
the girl under the trees sewing on blue aprons for its theme, 
must remain for him a poem only, but a poem forever. 

He tore the envelope roughly off and tossed it aside, and 
smoothed the crumpled sheets of fine linen paper. 

'' Dearest Mark," it began. 0' So I am her dearest 


Mark of them all, am I?'0 He smiled, and read on. 
"You bad, perfectly dear, lovable, silly boy ! To run away 
in a fit of the sulks and hide yourself there in the woods. 
To tell the truth, dear, I did not think you cared for any- 
thing I might say. You always treat me with such an air 
of superiority when we approach subjects of art, that now 
I 'm glad I said it, just to discover that you do care for my 
opinion sometimes. I am so flattered that I freely forgive 
you, Mark dear, for nmning away. Indeed, I could go 
into a rhapsody over it, only I have n't time. I have such 
a pleasant thing to tell you, and I 'm afraid some one else 
may tell it first. 

" Listen, Mark. The picture I call mine, because I have 
always loved it so — you remember the picture of Dawn — 
is soldi 1 1 Mrs. St. Clare Thomas bought it, I don't know 
for how much, but not half what it was worth, no doubt. 
She could give any price for a thing, only she loves her 
money more than she loves art. 

" Do you wonder, dear, that I am happy ? Every success 
that comes to you brings nearer oxu: wedding day, Mark, 
and oxu: lovely trip to the Orient It was settled we should 
go there, was it not ? I 'm so glad it was not yoxu: brush 
hand that was hurt. You forgot to tell us how the acci- 
dent happened. Mamma Kate wanted to take the next 
train and hunt you up, but I laughed her out of it. 

" The idea of her giving up Newport, and the yachting 
trip with the Scott Stevens party, just because you had 
hxurt your arm in some reckless way ! Of course if you had n't 
written it was nothing serious, we would both have flown 
to you, but she would drop everything and run, if you so 
much as hint your little finger. 



To go back to that imfortunate exhibit. Mark, I know 
that your work is fine, as well as you do — I know it better 
than you do. That is why I so insist that you should 
do something that will give you a name. All you lack is 
a name. I saw a lot of Whistlers in New York last week, 
and really, dear — I woidd n't have any one but you hear 
me say this — but — I think yours far better work. There ! 
What do you think of that ? If it were not for the magical 
name, the crowd who were gazing at them would never have 
seen them at all. They just take the catalogue and himt 
up the names and never look at anything else. Of course, 
Mark, we all do that — it's natural. But as long as it is so, 
you should recognize the fact, and benefit by it. 

" Those quiet artistic things you do are very beautiful, and 
they are the sort of things one would want to hang in one's 
house, but they are not bold enough to make the crowd look 
twice at them. When you have a name, dear, then you can 
be as truly artistic as you please, or you can be lazy and do 
careless things, as most of them do when they become cele- 
brated ; you '11 be a success, all the same, and what 's more, 
your things will sell, and that is the great point, after all, 
when one's income is as limited as yours. 

*' I have been thinking and planning for our Oriental trip, 
and studying modem Mahomedanism. It is most fascinat- 
ing. AU our best people are going into some kind of oriental- 
ism nowadays. A religious cult of some kind seems ab- 
solutely necessary to the human soul, and Christian Science 
is become so commonplace, now that everybody has taken 
it up — I would almost rather go in for old-fashioned 
Methodism, for the mere sake of being unique. 

I have so much to do these days that it is no wonder I 



write you so seldom. Being the head of our philanthropy 
department throws great responsibility on me, and my heart 
aches so for p)oor hiunanity all about me, that sometimes 
I feel almost like giving up that yachting trip, just to stay 
here and see that some of our more important schemes for 
the uplift of the masses are carried out. 

"Mamma Kate says they will only fall down again harder 
than ever if we do it for them, and don't make them uplift 
themselves, but such sentiments are very old-fashioned^ 
and not at all according to altruistic thought. 

" But to go back to our wedding and the Oriental trip — 
(you will try to sell more pictures soon, so we may feel sure 
of it, as long as you are so proud, and won't allow me to help?) 
Over there you '11 find such splendid subjects to paint — 
but you know more about that than I can tell you — only 
I 'm thinking what tremendous things you can do there. 
Everything in America is so commonplace, with no flavor of 
mystery about it — none of the poetry of the past still 
clinging to it. It is just the same in art as it is with our 
religion here. The mystery and poetry have all been taken 
out, and we are given only the same old dogmas and bare 
bones which the Puritans gnawed on. The spiritual nature 
craves spiritual food, and that is what I am getting now. 
Read the Arabic inscription on the back of the unmounted 
photograph I have inclosed. Those words have a mystic 
significance, dear, and every time you look at the face I 
want you to read those words, or better still, keep them in 
mind, and repeat them over and over in your heart with your 
eyes closed to all material things, and let only your spirit 
remain open and receptive to the inpouring of the great 
spiritual tide that will flow in on you. Those words will 


be a source of inspiration and help, and will lead you to the 
doing of great things in your art, which will result in the 
true uplift of your fellows. 

* ' That is what I am living for now, Mark, wholly, and I wish 
you could make your aims the same, so that our souls may 
be completely in accord, and both enwrapped and infiltrated 
throughout with the divine spiritual infliix. Oh, Mark, 
this is rapture. This is in the highest sense bliss. You 
may not imderstand the words, but give no heed to that. 
You must feel that they mean to your soul ecstasy supreme, 
and repeat them as I tell you — and by the way — tell me 
how you like the picture. I had it taken last week. 

" As soon as you get this, write us more particularly about 
your accident. We are wild to know. Were you alone, 
and what on earth were you doing ? Next week we go to 
Newport, and a few weeks later we join the Scott Stevens 
yachting party, I don't know how long to be gone, but 
a month anjrway, so if you don't come down to Newport 
I won't see you until fall. Think of it ! Can you wait 
so long? 

" Your true love, as always, Mark, 

" Louise Tremont Parsons." 

Mark looked in the envelope for the picture he had missed. 
There it was, crumpled and torn by his nervous fingers. 
"Very careless of me," he miumured, as he smoothed out 
the creases, and fitted the torn edges together. "Yes, it 's 
an exquisite head, and well taken, too." He smiled as he 
turned it over, and spelled out the Arabic incantation she 
had inscribed there for his spiritual "uplift." "If it were 
Greek, I might make a stab at a translation," he thought. 


'^ Ah, well, no harm." As long as an understanding of it was 
entirely unnecessary, he would ask for a little flour paste^ 
and mount it on a card for the better preservation of the 
beautiful face. He could make up a little gibberish of his 
own, and repeat it with closed eyes for his "spiritual uplift." 
He laid the picture smoothly between the leaves of his note- 
book and sighed. Yes, Louise was right. He must stop 
this dreaming and idling — but what a delicious time of 
peace it had been ! Lideed, it was fortimate his brush hand 
was unhurt. This very afternoon he would work, if his head 
would let him — and he did. He made another drawing 
while Joyful posed, and they passed a merry hour, for Mark 
insisted that this was to be a love scene, and Joyful was to 
gaze into the face of her knight ; but as there was no knightly 
lover at hand, her grandfather was pressed into the service, 
and she gazed into the old man's face quite to Mark's 

"I declare! You 'rfe makin' a regular fool of father," 
the old lady said, as she looked with pleased expression at 
the two seated under the tree. "And you 're put tin' notions 
into the child's head, too, pretendin' she 's lookin' at her 

"Why, I am, grandmother," cried Joyful, reaching up to 
pat the genial old face. " May we see it now, Mr. Thorn ? " 


"Why, you have n't put in the lover at all. You bv» 
only me." 

The old man laughed uproariously. "What did you 
think, Joy — were you going to have him make a theater 
acterin' knight out o' your gran'-daddy?" 

" Now vou need n't lauigh. You 're so straight and tall, I 


know you were just a handsome young knight once; was n't 
he, grandmother ? And you 're a fine old one now, if you 
only had armor and a steed.'* She laughed merrily, the 
happy, ringing laugh Mark had been longing to hear again. 
"Let me make the knight," she said, seizing a piece of chalk 
and seating herself on Mark's stool, before the easel. " You 
sit where grandfather did, Mr. Thorn, and, grandmother, 
you sit on the stool at his feet, so he can look down at you." 

"Oh, go along and make your knight," said the old lady 
good-humoredly. " I guess Mr. Thorn c'n set 'nd look down 
without havin' me there." ^ 

"Not so hard to look down at you like a lover, Mrs. 
Heatherby. There 's more truth than poetry in Miss Joy- 
ful's suggestion. Go ahead. Miss Joyful. We '11 pretend 
your grandmother is on this stool. Now, how will this do ? " 

"I will make the bandage around your head first. That 
will show you are a valiant knight, and have suffered wounds 
for your lady's sake." Their eyes met, and in the same 
instant she regretted her words, and bit her lip in her chagrin, 
and dropped her hands in her lap. 

"Go on, go on. Miss Joyful. Make me into a hero — 

"No — that would never do for Undine's lover. He was 
very careful never to let himself get hurt. He was a selfish 
knight." She tossed the chalk back in the box and rose. 
The color had left her face, and she looked sad and drooping. 

Her grandfather stretched his arms above his head. 
"Well, I declare. I believe sitting still 's hard work. I 'm 
himgry. How is it with you, Mr. Thorn?" 

"I 'm hungry^ too ; but that 's my usual condition these 


Joyful left them, turning away with a sense of relief, for 
she felt Mark's eyes on her face. Soon she returned with 
a lunch of scalloped tea cakes and milk, such as she had 
brought Mark that first evening. He sat regarding his 
work critically. He had felt her embarrassment, and his 
mood had changed. What was he doing, lingering here? 
He was no longer so helpless that he could not look after 
himself, and he would go back to his bam studio. 

As Joyful left them enjoying their lunch, her grandfather 
called after her to stay. 

"I don't care for an^^thing, grand-daddy," she said, 
smiling back at him. '^If you don't need me any more, 
Mr. Thorn, I guess I '11 go in." 

Mark was troubled. He would have liked to paint 
another hour, but he would not detain her. He sat awhile 
longer, chatting with the old man, and then tried to work 
again, but found it impossible. He gathered his things 
together and strolled off to the bluff, and sat gazing at the 
sea for the rest of the day — tortured and saddened by one 
of his blackest moods. He took out the little picture of 
Louise and studied it line by line. For years her exquisite 
combination of line and color had filled his artist sense with 
complete satisfaction. It was all he had ever particularly 
cared for in a woman — any woman other than his mother. 
He had always been able to dispel a moody fit by gazing at 
her face, and dreaming it his for all time — a beauty to be 
never wearied of, nor wasted. He thought now of the time 
he had been frenzied to possess it — had been enslaved by 
it, and smiled. Men never looked at her once without seek- 
ing to look again. Should he run down to Newport ? He 
thought he would better — it would shake off the spell 


that was growing on him here. It would n't do to be laid 
up here another day. Only for the bandage on his head, 
he would be already gone. He must get rid of it. 

He looked up and saw Joyful coming slowly toward him 
through the blueberry pasture. Her dress clung about her 
supple, girlish limbs, and the blueberry bushes caught at it 
as if with detaining fingers, as she walked. Mark hastily 
buttoned the picture and the notebook inside his coat, 
fumblingly, for his hurt arm was still tied across his breast. 
Underneath it he felt the rising tiunult of conflicting emo- 
tions, and tried to lay the quickened beating of his heart 
to his present weakness. He ground his teeth, and set his 
face sternly toward the sea. 

"Will you come to supper, Mr. Thorn?" she called, as 
she drew nearer. 

"Yes, gladly," he replied, rising and still looking at the sea. 

"Is n't it beautiful now?" she said, standing beside him. 
"But oh, it's more beautiful still, when the moon comes 
up over there, away on the edge, and makes a wide golden 
road through the midst of the sea to your very feet." Then 
the thought of the last time she had seen it thus came to her, 
and a crimson flood dyed her face. 

" I know how beautiful it must be. I have seen it so on 
the Mediterranean Sea at midnight, when the sky was black 
and covered thick with stars. How would you like to go 
there and see it?" He looked down into her face, and 
thought the flush of red was there for him. It stirred his 
heart more violently, and again he felt the wound in his head 
throb. He did not resist the impulse to take a step nearer 
her and bend lower, until their eyes met. "Tell me, how 
would you like to go there. Miss Joyful ? " 


The gaze which met his was frank and impersonal. She 
had ceased remembering Jack, and was thinking of the 
Mediterranean Sea and the stars. 

"Oh, I woxild like it. Mother used to tell me about it, 

"But what, little friend?" he said gently. 

" I was thinking how glad I am that it is beautiful here, 
too. I 'm a,hr^ys glad when the world is beautiful. Are n't 

"Yes, yes," he said. But he spoke sadly, and turned 
away. Presently he took her hand and pulled her play- 
fully toward the house. "Come," he said, "your grand- 
mother will be after us both, if we don't hurry." 

"Mr. Thorn! You are tired. You have done too much 

" Why so. Miss Joyful ? " His fingers tightened over hers 
as he led her on. 

"I can feel your hand tremble. You see you have only 
one hand now, and you use it too much." 

He laughed heartily. "It is not weariness that makes 
it shake. I 'm stronger than I Ve been for days." But he 
was angry with himself, and released her hand from his 

"Then why does it shake ?" 

" God knows! " he said, and his face darkened as he strode 
rapidly on toward the cottage. 



"Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, 
That old and antique song we heard last night ; 
Methinks it did relieve my passion much. 
More than light airs and recollected terms 
Of these most brisk and giddy-pacdd times. 
Hark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. 
The knitters and the spinners in the sun 
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones 
Do use to chant it." 

— Shakespeare. 

A RAW, chill wind was driving insistently against Mark's 
windowpanes when he awoke next morning. He tried to 
rise, but the wound in his head still throbbed, and the 
weather seemed to be sending arrows of pain through his 
heaUng bones. With a groan of dismay he relaxed his tense 
muscles and lay back again on his pillow. Certainly the 
elements were against him, but this one thing he could do. 
He woxild keep his room, even though it might make a little 
more trouble for his kind old hostess. He would not allow 
himself again to become the victim of his own emotions. 

He smiled as he re-read Louise Parsons' letter. "Every- 
thing is so commonplace here m America, with no flavor 
of mystery about it — none of the poetry of the past stiU 
clinging to it." As he read, he looked out and saw Joyful, 
with a little red shawl over her head, walking among the 
rosebushes and searching beneath them. What was she 



after ? Ah, it was the old white hen who had come off her 
nest with a brood of young ducklings. Mark watched 
with interest while Joyful secured the scolding, ruffled old 
fowl in her arm, and then gathered up the tottering little 
brood in her apron and carried them to the friendly shelter 
of the shed, and fastened them in. 

He saw her come out and pause a moment, with her face 
lifted to the driving rain, flushed, and radiant, and whole- 
some. She stretched out her hands, as if to feel the wind 
and rain beat on her bare arms, and smiled. What was she 
dreaming about? No mystery in America? No flavor 
of the past ? Why, there was a whole heaven of mystery 
in that child's soul, and the past himg its rainbow tints 
aroimd her like tissue of amethyst and gold. 

Of course there was no poetry and no mystery in New- 
port. What was Louise doing there, and why would 
Aimt Kate haunt those resorts ? Money, an up-to-date set, 
a yachting trip with a lot of imitative apes, and — a sweet 
longing for poetry and mystery. Mark laughed aloud, but 
not pleasantly, and Mrs. Heatherby came in with his break- 

"Laughin' *s good to hear, when it's real laughin', Mr. 
Thorn." She set the tray beside his bed, and looked down 
at him kindly. "Trjdng to make the best of a bad day ?" 

"Yes. There 's nothing else to do." 

"You '11 feel better when you 've had your coffee. It 's 
in for an all-day rain, I 'm thinkin'." 

"I 'm afraid so, and this weather sets my head thumping 
and plajrs the devil with my broken bones. I '11 just keep 
the room to-day, and to-morrow, if it holds up, I must get 
back to my work." 


The old lady's face clouded. "Back! to Somers'? 
There 's nobody there to look after you, 'nd you might have 
a set-back. I've always noticed there's never anything 
gained by gettin' in a fret." 

"No, but I've troubled you long enough, and received 
more than I can ever repay. Besides, a man miist work. 
He can't lie around and think about himself aU day, and 

"P'r'aps so. Men 're impatient creatures by nature. I 
often wonder at 'em — but there ! If they wan't, they 
wouldn't be good for anything. Somers, he's the only 
patient creature I ever saw, 'nd I always feel like gettin' 
after him with a sharp stick." 

"He served me a good turn when he brought me here." 

"Yes, 'nd if he had n't been a little up 'nd coming for once 
in his life, he 'd 'a been too late." 

"This breakfast is good. One more such, and I miist 
submit myself to Mrs. Somers' ministrations again. I 've 
been a fortxmate fellow these few weeks past. Won't you 
just examine this bandage, and see if I can dispense with it ? 
I 'm too vain to appear in the street with my head tied up." 

"I guess you be. Anybody c'n see that in your eye. 
Well, I like a little vanity in a man, myself. It 's good for 
*em 'nd keeps 'em young. I 've always noticed 't if a man 
gets where he don't care how he looks, or what folks think 
of him, he 's pretty low down. No matter what he 's been, 
or what he might be, he 's goin' downhill, if he ain't already 
at th' bottom. Now you eat your breakfast 'nd stop 
fvLssing. Bein' impatient and a bit vain's all right, but 
f rettin' never helped a body to a thing. It just drags a man 
all out, 'nd wastes his strength, 'nd it 's a regular man's 


failin', too, frettin' is. Wait till I take your dishes down, 
'nd get your room red up 'nd then we 'U see 'f it 's healed 
where the Doctor took the stitches out." 

When the dear old lady went downstairs with the break* 
fast tray, she sent her husband up to visit with Mark for 
a while. " Sometimes it 's kind o' quietin' to a sick person's 
nerves to be talked to, 'nd sometimes it riles 'em all up. 
You c'n watch out, 'nd if you see him getting restless, better 
leave him to himself awhile — 'nd if he wants that bandage 
off his head, you kind of divert him. He better leave it on 
till to-morrow, anyway. If you don't help him, he can't 
do much with the one hand; he can't get the other up to his 
head yet." 

Thus did the good people connive for his physical well- 
being, and the long day of rain slipped by, and another and 
another, ere, with bandages removed and hair arranged 
over the wound above his temple, he walked forth from 
his refuge, a well-mended man. 

A letter from Nathanael awaited Mark at the boarding 
house, a letter full of enthusiasm and hope. "I am to start 
for Colorado to-morrow," it ran. "My expenses there are 
to be paid. If, after looking over the groimd, I am willing 
to imdertake the work, I begin my duties at once. If not, 
I pay my own expenses home again, should I choose to return. 
More likely I would prefer to remain and seek some other 
opportunity. This you have done for me. You have set 
me free in more ways than one. Never again can I become 
the moping, moody fool you foimd me. I am awake at 
last; the freedom of the West will do the rest for me. If I 
take the position, I will be able to pay father the money he 
loaned me in six months' time. As for my invention, that is 


yet to be developed. Whether it may be made of any 
practical value to the mine owners remains to be seen. I 
am to have the privilege of introducing it if it is, and my 
fortune is made ; if not, at the least I am a free man, and 
will have my salary, and beyond that lies the hope of my 
life. You know what that is — you, only, my friend* 
God bless you. 

" I hope your broken bones are mended and your head 
whole. I wish I had the villain who did that job for you 
under my heel. The fact that I was not allowed to do 
anything about it still rankles within me." Mark smiled. 
"Bless his heart, he's all right; but if he ever gets the 
fellow imder his heel, it won't be I who put him there." 

Then he gathered the other letters that were lying at 
his hand and tore them rapidly open, one after another. 
A bill for rental of studio, a bill for framing, a check from 
the sale of the picture Louise had written him about. A 
note from a dealer, and another check for $200. This he 
endorsed to Mrs. Heatherby, and inclosed in a letter ad- 
dressed to her. Then he went down and bore the scrutiny 
and gossip of the boarding-house table. It was now mid- 
siunmer, and the guests who usually j&lled that abode during 
the warm months had arrived. These consisted for the 
most part of a few well-dressed and exceedingly common- 
place women, who were there because their husbands could 
come out Saturdays, and spend their Sundays fishing, with- 
out being put to the greater expense of the larger watering 
places. These women spent most of their time sitting out in 
the yard under the apple trees, where Mark first saw Jane. 
There they sewed and talked a continual stream of incon- 
sequent chatter with which they seemed to be well satisfied. 


Mark found his room hot and stuffy. He thought the 
iTvindows could not have been opened since he was last there. 
He tried to raise one, but found it impossible to pull back 
the snap fastening and lift the sash at the same time with 
but one sound arm. He felt like smashing the panes 
through, but restrained himself, and managed after a 
struggle to raise the window enough to let in a little air and 
several flies, which buzzed about his face irritatingly when 
he stretched himself at last on the bed, exhausted with heat 
and the mental depression which had taken possession of 
him when he left the Heatherby cottage. 

For a long time he lay quiet, yet unresting, unrefreshed. 
The voices of the women in the little orchard yard came up 
to him, and now and then the shrill, discordant note of Jane 
Someis' laugh; and the flies continued to buzz about his 
face, or ^in round and round and bump themselves aim- 
lessly against the ceiling. 

"The world is full of such flies,'* he thought "They 
wander about on the earth, exist, rq>roduce their kind, and 
die. They bump hideously against circumstances which they 
never try to shape or mold to any purpose. They hang 
iqx>n the footsteps of time and serve no end in life, until their 
bodies turn into dust for the feeding of new generations." 

He rose, dashed wator over his head and face, and went out. 
He felt he should turn into one of the flies if he remained 
there a moment longer. Below the distant horizon a thun- 
der-storm was brewing and muttering, and the worid seemed 
stilled by the ominous threat. Mark thought he would go 
to his bam studio, but instead he turned his sibeps towards 
the Drews'. 

He langhfd as be walked up the path, bare-headed, and 


shook the first drops of the coming storm from his hair. 
Elizabeth stood in the doorway. 

" Has the storm driven you back to us ? " she said. " Then 
the storm is welcome, Mr. Thorn." She was disarmed. 
She had meant to treat him with a measure of coldness when 
next they met, as the mystery of his hurt and reticence 
about it had wrought disagreeably upon her. It was not a 
pleasant thing to think about. Why could n't he have told 
Nathanael at least enough to silence the rumors rife in the 
village? She distrusted concealment; but now his frank 
manner and his pallor and evident weariness pleaded for him. 
She threw caution to the winds and was charmingly cordial. 

" Mother, here is Mr. Thorn. We 're so glad you are out 
again. The piazza is coolest. Shall we sit there till the 
storm breaks ? Take this chair, and lean your head back." 

" Thank you. You remember the first time I ever sat on 
this piazza, I sought it as a refuge ? I have the same reason 
for seeking it now, but not from the storm this time." 

" Thee is not at the Heatherbys' now, then ? " 

" You are gifted with divination, Mrs. Drew. To hear a 
refined voice or a strain of music was my sore need." 

" Thee is welcome, heartily welcome. We have missed 
thee, Mr. Thorn." 

" It is more than kind of you to tell me so. There are 
black moments that come to a man sometimes, a man like 
myself, without a home, when to know that any living being 
would miss him — is — all there is." 

" A man like thee, with the power of friendship in his 
soul, has always that consolation. Thee did much for Mr. 

" Nathanael ? Have you heard from him, too ? " 


Mark drew out his letter with a smile. "He 's all right 
now. What he needed was a chance." 

" And that thee gave him. It was much. Yes, he wrote 
us he had gone West, not to return." 

" Why should he return ? There was nothing for him 
here," said Elizabeth, going to the piano. " What shall it 
be, Mr. Thorn ? " 

"Oh, thank you. Schmnann first, after that whatever 
you like. The last evening I was here you played something 
I have wanted to hear ever since. Joyful used to sing the 
air when she sat imder the trees sewing." 

" Was it this ? " She began playing softly. 

" Yes, yes." He leaned back contentedly and listened 
with closed eyes. His senses yielded to the charm of 
Schumann's exquisite subtlety of sentiment, and the rev- 
elation of the music seemed to him to be Joyful Heatherby 
— her face, with its changing lights of understanding, her 
voice, her movements. He saw her walking toward him 
through the blueberry pasture, or standing for him in a rain 
of golden light as Undine. He saw her looking up into his 
face with troubled, tearful eyes. He saw her as she moved 
about the room, shaking out the white curtains and tying 
them back. He saw her in the dusk of evening, as on that 
first night she sat on the porch step holding the tuft of lilac 
bloom to her face and gazing up at the black sky. Child 
she was then, a rare, fair child, and in these few short weeks 
he had watched the sweet growth of womanhood in her. As 
the sultry heat closed around him, and the storm muttered 
low, the rhythm and swing and intertwined harmonies 
searched him through. He felt himself yearning for her — 
longing for her with growing intensity. He rose and 


stretched out his arm as if to feel for the still scattering drops 
of rain, but he was conscious the act was prompted by the 
wish to reach out for her and draw her toward him. He 
turned and strode into the room where Elizabeth sat, and 
stood by the piano, watching her fingers. 

"What does that make you think of?" he asked. 

'* The world as it is just now, when everything is sweet and 
faint, and waiting and expectant. Pretty soon the storm 
will come, and the reviving. There I " She struck the last 
chords most delicately and lightly. "Now — everything 
is waiting." She dropped her hands in her lap and looked 
up at him. He was very pale, and seemed weary. 

"Yes, everything is waiting. We are all waiting, I im- 
agine, Nathanaelout West — he is waiting there, and we here. 
What are we all waiting for ? " He smiled, and crossed over 
to the couch where her mother lay, and sat down beside her. 

Elizabeth smiled also. She was conscious of a letter from 
Nathanael which she had placed in the bosom of her dress. 
While he had said nothing in it that could be construed into 
a sentiment toward herself, yet through it all had run an 
undercurrent to be felt, although unexpressed, which had 
caused her to place it there and keep it by her. In her heart 
she knew him to be waiting — but for what ? Was it for 
Joyful Heatherby to grow up ? He had never said so — 
indeed, he had not mentioned the child of late — and yet — . 

Mark could have answered her thought, but with a 
fatality that often attends such tense mental conditions he 
only said, — 

"Have you seen Joyful lately ?" 

"Not very lately; why?" In her heart she said: 
"The mere mention of Nathanael makes him think of her. 


There must be a reason for their being coupled together 
in his mind " — of course she was right in her surmise — 
"Nathanael loves Joyivl" 

"Because," Mark replied, "she has seemed pensive, al- 
most sad, these few weeks past." 

"Yes, and she loves Nathanael," she thought ; "why else 
should she be sad at his going?" But aloud she said, 
"When his leaving here is the best thing in the world for 
him, why should she be sad?" 

Mark looked up in surprise. " Whose leaving ? Jack's ? " 

"No, Nathanael's." 

"Oh, I don't think she's thought twice over his going. 
Why should she ? " 

"Then why should she be sad?" she reiterated. 

Mark gave her a keen glance. "The man is nearer his 
hope than he imagines," he thought. "Why, indeed?" 
he asked. " Or rather, why do you think of him in connec- 
tion with her sadness?" 

Elizabeth felt she had betrayed herself. She rose and 
looked out. The rain was now pelting loudly on the piazza 
roof. The air had taken on a sudden chill, and she closed 
the door. 

" That cool, damp breeze is refreshing, but we woxild better 
shut it out. After the heat and your walk, it maybe too 
much for you." 

He laughed. "That 's what they have been doing at the 
Heatherbys' — making a baby of me. I must go where 
people won't be so kind. It spoils a man." 

Mrs. DreWsmiled. "Does thee really think thee is tell- 
ing the truth?" 

" No, I 'm not. But to be so patiently and kindly cared 


for, to be mothered as that dear old lady has mothered me, 
has a tendency to produce a sort of mertia of contentment. 
A man likes it just as a cat likes a soft cushion, and — I 'm 
no hero." 

" It has done thee no harm. What will thee do now ? Go 
on with the work in thy bam loft ? " 

" I don't know. The old man may turn me out, now that 
his son is gone. No, I 'U try a fashionable watering place 
for a while. Not that it really suits my present himior, but 
from a sense of duty." 

"Does duty call thee there ? Does thee like that sort of 

"Yes, and no," he replied, meditatively. He was look- 
ing at Elizabeth, who had seated herself near the window 
with some light embroidery. A dark doorway, crimson 
curtained, was behind her, and her head was brought into 
strong relief against it, as she bent forward over her work 
in the light. He had never seen red hair relieved by just 
such a backgroimd, yet how beautiful it was. He must 
try it. "Since you and your daughter have often enjoyed 
such places, it would hardly be courteous of me to express 
my detestation of them; but you must make allowances 
for me — an artist is more or less of a barbarian at the best. 
As for duty, my only living relative is there. I must go and 
prove to her that I am not a helpless cripple. She writes 
me she will not believe to the contrary until she sees me. 
She really loves me, and as she is the only one who un- 
feignedly does, it is her right that I go to her." 

They all remained silent for a time, while the rain de- 
scended furiously. Then Elizabeth rose and left them, but 
presently returned with tea and biscuit. 


"It has grown so much cooler I thought I would venture/' 
she said, serving Mark with a steaming cup. 

"I am grateful for it. The fury of this storm will soon 
q)end itself. I sha' n't be thrown on your kindness so long 
as I was that first time." He smiled. "That rainy day 
was a godsend to me. So is this, for that matter." 

"It brought us pleasure also," said Elizabeth. "When 
do you go to Newport?" 

"To-morrow." He made a wry grimace. "I shall be in 
a very different atmosphere there." 

"Why do you go, if you disapprove of it so much ?" 

"To please my aimt, and incidentally for certain worldly 
reasons. The impecunious artist must keep in touch, in a 
measure, with the amassers and spenders of wealth. He 
must keep abreast of the fads of the day, and know whether 
purples or greens are the prevailing color. He must stand 
subserviently ready to be taken up and made a fad, of him- 
self, that he may ride to fame on the high tide of popularity, 
all sails set — all canvas, I should say ; moreover, I shall 
disappoint a friend of mine — if I don't show up at Newport 
sometime during the season." 

The storm was abating, and he rose and went out on the 
piazza. "There is clear sky in the west," he said, as he 
resumed his seat. "When it reaches the zenith,! must go." 

"Thee may help me to my chair," said Mrs. Drew. 
"Give me thy well arm. It is many years since I have 
crossed a room without the aid of a friend's arm, or of my 
friend the stick, which thee has placed so carefully over 
there in the comer, where I can't reach it." 

" I 'm glad I did. I prefer to take the place of your stick. 
But now I '11 put it beside you, as I sha' n't be here to have 


the pleasure — for a long time, I fear. How fast it is clear- 
ing! I must be gone before the sim comes out hot again." 

"I didn't like the worldly speech thee made a moment 
since/' she said, looking up at him with a smile on her fine 
old face. 

"No? neither did I," he said, with a laugh. 

"I don't think Mr. Thorn meant it, mother." 

"I 'm afraid I meant too much of it. Miss Drew." 

"Thee can't perstiade thy aunt that thee is well imtil 
thee looks more rugged than thee does now. Would n't 
thee better wait a little?" 

"No, I must go while this interesting pallor is still upon 
me. It 's an ' ill wind which blows no man good.' If they 
see I am not long for this world, my pictures will take a 
sudden rise in value." 

"I 'm afraid thee is flippant." 

"No, no. I 'm in earnest," he said, laughing down at her, 
then, suddenly repentant, he took her hand, bent over it 
and kissed it like a courtier. "Forgive me," he said. 
"Good-bye, Miss Drew. If I return to paint or to remove 
my things, I shall hope to see you. Thank you both for 
many courtesies. They have all been appreciated and will 
never be forgotten." He spoke with a hurried and intense 
manner, and abruptly left them, ere they could utter the 
usual conventional phrases of parting. Suddenly he turned 
back. " I 'm afraid I 've been very abrupt. I can't express 
myself adequately. Set words are cold covers of real feeling. 
I 've enjoyed your acquaintance and don't wish it to end 
here. You have been courageously kind to a stranger. 

"Indeed, it must not end here." 


^'It has been a pleasure to us also," they cried in one 
breath, and this time he was gone. 

The next morning Mark took Somers over to his bam 
studio, and instructed him how to pack his few belongings 
there, and taking his most valuable sketches with him, he 
left Woodbury Center without seeing Joyful again. 

He rode over to Willoughby Jimction in the democrat 
wagon, through the drowsy heat of midday, his tnmk rattling 
in the wagon box behind him, and Somers at his side droning 
out his monologue of gossipy reminiscence. Mark felt too 
ill to heed him, and braced himself in his seat with his sound 
arm to prevent the continuous jar and rattle of the vehicle 
from giving him acute pain. As they crossed the wagon 
way through the woods, Mark felt a sudden, maddening 
desire to turn into the cool, green lane, instead of proceed- 
ing on his way. The impulse angered him. He laid it 
and the ever recurring image of Joyful before his mental 
vision to his present ph3rsical weakness, and inability to cope 
with himself. 

"Yonder a leetle ways fu'ther to th' left 's where I foimd 
ye that day," said Somers, pointing with his whip. "I 
d' know 's I sh'd 'a found ye 't all if the mare had n't 'a taken 
a fit at sight o' ye, 'nd acted like Satan possessed. Beats 
all the sense critters has. G'lang ! Well, I never thought 
then 't I 'd ever take ye out o' this place sittin' here on th' 
seat beside me. Did think 't I might fetch ye over to 
Willoughby Junction in a box, maybe. G'lang! " 

"Heavens, man ! Look out over these stones a little, 
can't you ? I might as well have been taken over in a box 
and done with it, as to be tortured to death now." 

If there was any one of his fictions in which Somers took 


more delight than another, it was that he drove a spirited 
horse. He took Mark's exclamation of pain as a compli- 
ment to his steed. ''Whoa, Fan. Whoa! She alluz 
does want to go like Jehu. I clean forgot about your 
broken bones, 'nd was givin' her her head a leetle. Whoa ! " 

But with a switch of her tail and a jerk of her head to 
loosen the reins on her bit, the mare continued her usual 
ambling trot, unmindful of admonitions either for haste or 
moderation, and Somers continued his flow of talk. Thus 
was the weary distance at last covered, and Mark foimd 
himself again passing swiftly away from the place, just as 
he had come, his valise and sketching outfit at his feet, 
and the landscape rushing by him scarcely heeded, and the 
problems of his life still stirring in him a vague imrest. 

As he neared the city and the bustle and life of the 
suburban stations broke upon him, the events of the past 
few weeks began to slip back into a chamber of his mind 
occupied by dreams. When he arrived, he went first to his 
old studio rooms. They were as he had left them — par- 
tially dismantled, wholly disordered. His paintings had 
been returned from the exhibit, and stood about in boxes. 
He paced up and down the long room, kicking aside as he 
walked the pieces of wrapping paper and bits of string and 
pasteboard that littered the floor. Well, he must be done 
with dreams. The old life was upon him again, he must 
take it up and mold circumstances to his own ends. On 
the whole, perhaps he would better not go back to Wood- 
bury Center at all, but stay where he was and work. He 
turned some of the half-finished canvases from the wall, 
but it was late, the lights were dim, and he could hardly 
trace their outlines. Hungry he was, but weariness over« 


came his desire for food, and he stretched his length on a 
couch in one comer of the studio, and was soon asleep. 

Then was the chamber of dreams unlocked, and Joyful 
came stealing out. He saw her in a dense wood, and it was 
raining, and she carried the white hen in her arms, and the 
young ducklings in her apron, and she was weeping bitterly. 
He tried to take her in his arms and comfort her, but she 
was gone, and he foimd he was leading Louise by the hand, 
and they were walking in the bed of a turbulent stream, 
and Louise said to him, "Why do you lead me in this 
water over these rough stones?" and he replied, "I am 
leading you to the cottage of Joyful Heatherby. The 
stream will take us there." Then he turned and looked 
at Louise, and behold she was blind, and he said, "How 
did you become blind?" and she said, "I am not blind. 
I am walking by the light within," and he said, "Then 
why do you stiunble over these stones in the water?" and 
Louise cried out, "There are no stones, there are no stones," 
and she fell down ; and when he tried to catch her in his 
arms and save her she seemed to slip away in the stream 
and was gone. And then the stream turned into a vast 
ocean, and the woods loomed up behind him black and 
forbidding, and out on the ocean he saw Mr. Heatherby's 
boat tossing about without sail or rudder, and Joyful stood 
in the boat and called him, and she wore the pink dress 
Elizabeth had fashioned for her, and her arms were full of 
blue gingham aprons. Then he thought the boat was 
drifting farther and farther away, and he cried out to her 
and tried to walk to her on the waves, but could not, and 
then he was taken up and tossed hither and thither in the 
sea. But when he thought he was lost he found himself 


sitting beside Joyful under the great beech tree, and she 
was feeding him with scalloped tea cake and milk. And 
he leaned toward her to kiss her, and suddenly there was 
a great stamping of horses' feet, and he looked and saw 
that Somers was leading his mare about the studio, and try- 
ing to back the democrat wagon through the hall to get it 
into the elevator, and he called out to Somers in anger, 
" What did you bring that beast up here for ? " and Somers 
replied that he had just given the mare her head and she 
had brought him there, and now he was trying to get her 
down again, whereupon there were more shouts and tramp- 
ling, and Mark awoke to the realization that some one was 
pounding furiously at the door of the studio. It was the 
janitor who had come to inquire why the lights were turned 
on, for he thought Mark was in the coimtry. Then, half 
famished, and with aching bones, he roused himself, and 
went out into the warm summer evening to seek supper 
and his lodging. 



** O Love ! what art thou, Love ? the ace of hearts, 

Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits ; 
A player masquerading many parts 

In life's odd carnival ; — a boy that shoots 
From ladies' eyes, such mortal, woundy darts ; 

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots ; 
The Puck of Passion — partly false — part real — 

A marriageable maiden's beau ideal." 

— Thoicas Hood. 

Louise Parsons' gowns fitted her perfect figure to per- 
fection. This July day she wore a white dress, and upon 
her well-poised head a wide halo of creamy tulle combined 
with Mar6chal Niel roses, underneath which her soft, light 
hair rolled back from her smooth brow and delicate ears. 
She was driving Scott Stevens' beautiful horses, and enjoy- 
ing the exhilaration; while he, at her side, turned half 
round that he might watch and enjoy her. Behind them 
sat a wooden man, clad in Quaker drab, perched on a small, 
high seat, and apparently neither seeing nor hearing. 

"You mustn't speak to me when we 're among all these 
carriages," she said. "I'm afraid I sha'n't manage well. 
There ! I almost scraped their wheel." 

"That was their coachnian's fault. He had no business 
to allow you to come so near. Pull them down. That 's 
right. Keep them to a steady, even pace, and let them fed 



a master hand holds the rems. Bravo ! I '11 have you a 
splendid whip before the season's over." 

"When we come out on the shore drive, where there are 
fewer carriages, it will be easier, won't it?" 

" Yes, but they always want to go there. I usually speed 
them a little, and they expect it." 

"Ah, that 's what I would like. I fed like flying. Will 
you let me speed them ?" 


"But you must show me how." 

"I will, indeed. Keep a little more to the right, so we 
can fall in line." 

"Oh, Mr. Stevens, I had forgotten something. Will you 
tell me the time ? I 'm expecting a friend at five." 

"You're too late. It is half past that hoxu: now." He 
smiled, looking down at his watch. 

"Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Take the reins and turn about 
quickly. I must get home immediately." 

As he took the reins, he leaned forward and glanced into 
her eyes. "Is it a matter of such grave importance that 
you must be there when your friend arrives?" 

"Indeed it is." 

Scott Stevens smiled one of his quiet, disconcerting smiles. 
"How did you happen to forget it?" he asked. 

With a slight lift of her chin, she turned her face from him 
toward the sea. "Oh, are you leaving the shore drive? 
Then I can't look at the bay, and it 's so lovely now." 

"Yes, I'm taking you home by a quieter way. You 
did n't answer my question." 

She settled herself in quiet dignity at his side, her hands 
dropped in her lap, and her profile toward him. "I did n't 


think an answer was required* You know quite weQ how 
I came to forget." 

''Yes, that is pleasant, but I wanted to hear you say it, 
you know. I don't wish you to remember engagements 
when you are driving with me." 

"Ah, but you see I did." 

"But too late. I have the satisfaction of knowing that 
you forgot for a while. Here 's a fine stretch of road, and 
no teams. Shall we speed them a little? Will you take 
the reins ? " 

"Thank you, no. I 'm too agitated now. Are you tak- 
ing me home ? This is a very roundabout way, I 'm sure." 

"What's the difference ? You 're too late to meet your 
friend on time now, an)rway," he laughed. "You have the 
most serene way of showing agitation I ever saw." 

"It is my religion of peace that brings that serenity. I 
try to be always calm." 

"Well, peace is a very good thing. I like it, myself, 
especially in a lady, don't you know. Now you take the 
reins, and speed them a little, and I'll show you how. 
Brace your feet, and keep a firm grasp on the lines, so. 
Now gently draw up on them, that's right, slowly and 
steadily. See them pick up their feet ? Is n't that pretty ? 
They skim along like birds." 

And so they did, and so Scott Stevens dominated Louise, 
and so it was that Mark Thorn sat and visited with his Aunt 
Kate for an hour before his love came to him. When 
Louise was lifted from the vehicle, they sat on the vast 
verandah behind a screen of vines. Scott Stevens glanced 
back as he drove away, and had an instant vision of Louise 
drifting like a white cloud up the white-pebbled walk, 


between gorgeous mosaic beds of coleuses, holding out her 
two hands to a gentleman in evening dress, who came 
down to meet her, and who took the two hands in his own, 
and bending, kissed her on the forehead. 

"Damn," he muttered. "Thought Thorn was in 
France." Then he smiled, then he laughed outright, and 
started the team to a faster gait. "If I were Thorn — I 
see myself allowing my lady's cool airs to hold me off to a 
decorous arm's-length salute." 

Mrs. Parsons rose with dignified reproach on her Well- 
bred face. She was slight, staid, and delicate, and her 
fine hands had held a prayer book e^ery Sabbath day for 
fifty years. Every one wondered that she could tolerate 
so many religious vagaries in her stepdaughter, but those 
who knew Louise imderstood it. She looked up in the tall, 
beautiful girl's face: "Why are you so late, dear? You 
won't have time to dress for dinner. It 's being served now." 

Louise kissed her cheek lightly. "Not dress? and the 
first evening Mark is with us — too bad ! " 

"Not at all. You are charmingly dressed — a dream 
in white." 

"Then I must look like a ghost, Mark. Dreams in white 
usually are." She was deliberately divesting herself of 
hat and gloves, and as Mark watched her slow, graceful 
movements, and down-dropped lids, he felt the old satis- 
faction in her beautiful lines and coloring stealing over him. 
Her absolute perfection of physique filled him with keen 
delight. "What an exquisite creature!" he thought, but 
he only said : "Most radiant ghost, most heavenly — come, 
let 's dine and waive the matter of dress. Any more beauty 
just now would make me faint. I 'm himgry as a Turk." 


''No wonder, Mark. You are the ghost of yourself. 
You look as if you had n't eaten a thmg since you left us/' 
exclaimed his aimt. 

"Then come, we '11 dine," said Louise. " Buttobehimgry 
as a Turk is nothing. The Turks are all Mahomedans in 
religion, and abstemiousness is part of their creed, you 

"No, I didn't know. I always thought them rather 
portly, sensual old duflfers." 

"Now, Mark," she slipped her hand through his arm, 
"we're not going to begin quarreling the first thing, are 

"No, dear, no. Suppose I just kiss you, by way of 
variety." He placed one finger under her chin, and turned 
her face up to his. She submitted calmly. "You are 
charmingly cool this warm evening." 

"Don't be silly, Mark. Come, Mamma Kate." 

Throughout dinner Louise was animated, charming, and 
aflfable, while Mark, sitting opposite her, thoughtfully 
studied anew her personality. He felt vaguely a change 
either in himself or in her. What was it ? A charm lost, 
or a charm added — or was it a reversal of his own view- 
point ? He watched the movements of her fingers as she 
toyed with the spoon in her ice, and the fire in the opal she 
wore, and the turn of her wrist, and the round of her arm ; 
and at the same time, as if extended to him out of the realm 
of dreams, he saw another hand holding toward him a 
violet, and a voice saying: "Everything has beauty, you 
know. This has. A soul must be greater than just beauty, 
or Undine would have been enough without it." 

He put up his hand as if to brush cobwebs from before 


his face, and tried to concentrate his thoughts on what 
Louise and his aunt were saying. They were telling him 
all the news of his set and their own. 

"You have come down just in time, Mark. Mr. Stevens 
is fitting up his yacht in the most charming taste, and 
sparing no expense. I heard them say he wished he could 
have your help.'' 

"You may go now, Stokes," said Mrs. Parsons, speaking 
to the man behind her chair. "And tell Hart that we will 
want the carriage at a quarter to nine, promptly. We shall 
wish to be there early, sha'n't we, Louise?" 

"Yes, indeed, — nine won't be a minute too soon." 

"What is going on?" asked Mark. 

"Mr. Stevens gives a dance at the Casino to-night, and 
I promised to go early, for Mamma Kate is one of the host- 
esses. You must go with us, Mark, for the New York 
crowd will be there in full force. Boston's well enough 
as far as family goes, but when it comes to spending money, 
you must get into the New York set." 

"I suppose you must." Mark smiled, and crushed an 
almond shell between his fingers. 

"You needn't look down and smile in that way. You 
know well enough that in order to be really practical in 
your art you must have to do with the spenders of money." 

"Certainly, certainly. Now, Louise, come. Aunt — " he 
lifted his glass on high, "A toast to the spenders of 
money. Long may they spend." 

"Then you '11 go with us ?" 

"Shall be deUghted." 

" Come, Mamma Kate. You will see her in the loveliest 
gown in the world, Mark. It 's far prettier than mine." 


^'A jSne gown means only one thing at my age." 

"What do you mean, Mamma Kate?" 

"That I need it. You woidd better hurry, Louise." 

"Oh, I have time and to spare. We can look at your 
sketches first, Mark. Where are they ? Send for them. I 
always say it 's most important for paintings to look well 
by artificial light, for they are usually seen in that way — 
even in galleries. What have you been doing ? " 

"Mostly nature studies — some ideals." He took the 
portfolio from Stokes' hand and began tossing on one side 
canvas after canvas. 

"Let me see them all. Won't you?" 

"You won't care for those. I'll show you the more 
finished pieces." He drew out a sketch of the sea, with an 
old boat on the sands, and set it before them, but Louise 
was looking at the canvases he had thrown out. 

"You know I always like most the ones you like least. 
Now, what's this? One of your ideals? You see it's 
perfectly fascinating." She held up the painting he had 
made of Joyful as she posed for Undine in the wood. 
"What's it for? I mean what is the idea? No, don't 
put it back with those. Hold it for me, so. " 

He reluctantly held it in the light for her. 

"Look, Mamma Kate ! Mark, you certainly are im- 
proving. What is it for?" 

"I don't know that it 's for anything." 

"You know what I mean — the idea — what is it ? A 
mermaid ? Of course not, for she would n't be dressed, if 
it were, but it would make a lovely panel. Mr. Stevais 
wants three for the saloon of his yacht. It would be just 
the thing for yoiu: siunmer's work, Mark. He said he was 


going to get some really celebrated artist to do them, and 
I thought of you immediately." 

"Call me celebrated, do you? Thanks." 

"Well, you are going to be sometime, you know. That 's 
what I wanted to see these for. Those panels were in my 

Mark tossed the picture one side and selected another. 
"How would this do — a leafy glade?" 

"A leafy glade in a boat ! You should have something per- 
taining to the sea. Have n't you anything more in there ? " 

"Yes, fifty things." 

"Come, show them to us, Mark." 

"Oh, we haven't time now," he said, resolutely replacing 
them in their case. He looked in a moment haggard and 

"K Mark is to be up half the night with us, he must rest 
now. You forget, Louise, that he has been hurt and ill." 

"Lideed, no. One can't forget — you look wretchedly, 
Mark. But after all, that pallor gives you an interesting, 
poetic air. Doesn't it, Mamma Kate? Every one will 
see that you are a genius now. Gro and rest. I woidd n't 
miss having you with us this evening for anything. You 
look so distinguished that you are quite adorable. I '11 go 
now. Do be ready in time." 

Mark laughed, and thoughtlessly seized the great port- 
foilo with the wrong hand and swimg it around, giving his 
lame shoulder a wrench. He compressed his lips with the 
pain. Louise was gone, but his aunt saw the movement 
and the look, and called Stokes. 

"Wait a moment, Mark," she begged, as he started to 
follow the man to his room. "Tell me, dear, I didn't ask 


because I know you hate a fuss, but — why could n't you 
have told me ? " She laid her hand on his arm, and looked 
sadly up in his face. 

The look reminded him of his mother, and he stooped and 
kissed her. "You mustn't be so solicitous about me, dear 
little aimtie. Don't you know I 've traveled half the world 
over and taken pretty good care of myself ? This was an 
ugly fall, but I 'm well mended, only a little sore still." 

"But I might have come to you and taken care of you, if 
you had only let me know." 

"I had excellent care, aunt, with the kindest and dearest 
old people, who could n't have been better to me if I were 
their own son." 

"Well, you '11 rest now. Don't mind if you do keep us 
waiting. It won't matter in the least." 

But Mark did not rest. He sat in his room with the 
picture of Undine before him, thinking. He wondered 
why he had brought it with him, and yet he knew. It 
was that he might study it in just this way alone ; but he had 
not meant to show it to them — at least not yet — perhaps 
sometime, when he had carried out his idea, and it was 
placed on exhibit, — or — . He tossed his head back and 
laughed, then began pacing his room. 

"Scott Stevens' yacht," he said, and then he laughed 
again. "I'll make something for that boat, though, if I 
get the chance, to please Louise, but it shall not be this." 
He carefully replaced it and locked the portfolio, and 
again paced his room. Presently he went down, and 
waited thirty minutes looking over papers and magazines, 
before the ladies appeared. He thought he had never 
seen Louise so beautiful, and admired her frankly. 


"I might make a portrait of you for the yacht. I could 
make a deep sea-green background, and the yellow sheen of 
this satin would be like fellow moonlight. Oh, I have it, 
I '11 paint you as the spirit of Fingal's Cave.'' 

She laughed, and took his arm. "Come, Mark, don't 
be silly. We 're going to be awfully late. Mamma Kate, 
but then we have a good excuse — Mark's visit, you 
know, and this being the first evening — so much to talk 

"I 've been down here ready for half an hour or more." 

"You imgenerous man, to speak of it ! Don't you dare 
say a word when I make our excuses to Mr. Stevens; and, 
Mark, if you don't fed like dancing, you need n't. I '11 sit 
out your dances with you." 

"Will you? What if I prefer to dance them out?" 

That evening Louise had her way. She thought Mark 
had never been so interesting — so gay and debonair. 
She easily secured Scott Stevens' promise to call next day 
and look over Mark's works with a view to selecting sub- 
jects for the panels, and he had proposed that they should 
spend the afternoon on board the yacht. 

"You know, Mark, we can't begin too soon, for he is to 
sail in three weeks, if the yacht is ready, and you will need 
all that time and more," she said, as they drove away that 

"We must begin immediately, must we?" He empha- 
sized the "We." 

"Of course, Mark." She leaned back wearily in her 
comer of the carriage, and lightly played with her fingers 
on her knee the notes of a waltz. It was the last waltz, and 
^e had danced it with Scott Stevens. 


Mark took the hand m his and kissed the fingers before 
he returned it. "Very well, then, we 11 begin to-morrow." 

"And I want particularly that die should see the study I 
admired so much this evening." 

"Ah, but I can't show him that one." 

"Now, Mark. Are you going to be disagreeable?" 

"No, Louise. Are you?" 

"But why not let him see that one?" 

"Because I have other plans for it." 

"Mark, don't you know that — every one knows that 
Mr. Stevens can have the very finest artist in Europe paint 
these panels? He has said he would. He could have 
Puvis de Chavannes, if he chose. If he has you to do these 
it will be because I ask him." 

"How do you know he could have the finest artist in 
Europe ? " 

"Because money can buy everything." 

"Everything except that sketch," said Mark, with a 

"Why are you so fussy about that particular one?" 

"Why do you wish him to see it?" 

"Because it may make all the difference. He might give 
you the commission just because of a fancy for that one. 
He might not care for another thing you have." 

"So? I thought he was to give it to me because you 
asked it." 

"Mark, you are perfectly dreadful to-night." 

He took her hand again, but she drew it away. "No. 
You 're not to kiss my hand again imtil you explain your- 

Very welL" He ceased his bantering manner and 



straightened himsdf. ''If I accept a commission from 
Scott Stevens to paint the panels in his yacht, I will con- 
sider the matter and paint what I think best. On the whole, 
I think I won't show him my sketches at all." 

''How proud you are. But he will have to see what 
kind of work you are doing." 

"He knows well enough. He has been to the exhibits." 

"That's just the trouble. Your work attracted so little 
attention there." 

"And he has spent hours in my studio in Paris watching 
me paint. He knows as well now as it is in him to know* 
He would know no better if he lived a hundred years — 
not if he belonged to the fraternity of artists, and he used 
to think he did. No — I won't show him the sketches." 

"Mark ! and I have asked him to see them. You 're not 
going to allow your pride to stand in the way of such an 
opportunity ? " 

"No. My pride shall further the opportimity." 

The carriage stopped and Mark alighted and handed the 
ladies out, and then took his aunt's arm. "You are tired, 

"Yes, Mark. And don't try to argue that matter out 
to-night. Go to bed, both of you, and settle it to-morrow." 

"Very well, Mamma Kate. Gk)od night, Mark," said 
Louise sweetly, and they parted. But they were saved all 
the trouble of adjusting their differing opinions next day 
by Scott Stevens himself. A note from him at breakfast 
invited them to drive out in his drag to a distant golf 
links with a party, to lunch at the club there, and then 
return by way of the dock, and spend the afternoon on 
board the yacht. 


"This falls in with my wishes perfectly, since you won't 
show him your sketches. Shall I accept for you, Mark ? " 


"And you, Mamma Kate? He says there will be 
Charlie Van Burgh, and Mrs. Renolds, and May Carlie — 
she is an EngKsh girl with whom he is desperately in love, 
and Mrs. Renolds is fabulously rich and very dashing. 
He's trying to make up his mind between the two — " 

"Who is?" 

"Charlie Van Burgh. He has been carrying on a double 
flirtation all the season. We'll see who has the upper 
hand now, by the one he chooses to sit beside during the 
drive — he'll give you the other one." 

"Will he?" said Mark, with a laugh. "And who sits 
with you?" 

"Make my excuses, Louise. I sha'n't be needed, if 
Mrs. Renolds is of the party, and you may say I have a 
headache." Mrs. Parsons looked weary, and betook 
herself to the hammock on the verandah with a novel, while 
Louise disappeared to write and dispatch her note. 

But evidently Mark was to have no option as to where 
he should Sit, or with whom. When Scott Stevens drove 
up, the seating had all been arranged. May Carlie and 
Van Biu-gh occupied the last seat, just in front of the two 
liveried gentlemen balancing themselves on their respec- 
tive perches at the rear — Mrs. Renolds in the middle, 
alone, and Scott Stevens, with an empty seat be^de him, 
handling the reins and skillfully managing two pairs of 
beautifully matched horses. 

Mrs. Renolds and Mark had met three years before in 
Paris — her husband was living then — Van Burgh was an 


acquaintance, and May Carlie was a stranger. She was 
pretty, fair, and slender, with a complexion of pink and 
white English roses. Mark was presented to her, then he 
assisted Louise to her place beside Stevens, and climbed to 
his own seat with the gradous and smiling widow. 

He had felt the keen, practiced measurement she was 
making of him while he stood bare-headed beside the drag 
during the moment of his introduction to Miss Carlie. 
Now as he settled himself beside her, she turned and looked 
at him again with a veiled glance of curiosity that rested 
but an instant on his face, then shot past him to a recogni* 
tion of a passing acquaintance. 

"I am glad you haven't forgotten me, Mr. Thorn." 

"That would be impossible, Mrs. Renolds." 

"You were such an earnest student in those days. You 
never took time to make a real acquaintance, did you?" 

" Acquaintances, yes — many. Friends, very few." 

"I thought as much. And do you work as hard now, or 
do you live a little?" 

" I do both, by fits and starts. Just now I am thinking of 
living a little while, if that 's what you mean by idling about 

"Ah, yes. I suppose it's living. Then this is a good 
time to renew oiu- acquaintance, I take it. In those days 
I only knew you through my husband. He had a great 
opinion of you." 

"Thank you." They sat then for an instant of con- 
strained silence, while the couple in front of them talked 
easily on, and the couple behind them kept up a running fire 
of repartee, or what served them as well, and laughter. 

Scott Stevens held to the program he had outlined 


to Louise in his note. They bowled along now by the sea, 
now past beautiful residences and well-kept grounds, now 
through bits of woods, and meadows so fair and fields so 
well tilled, that the landscape seemed one vast park, over 
smooth roads ; and Mark thought of his painful ride, jolt- 
ing over stones, from the Somers' boarding house to Wil- 
loughby Jimction, which now seemed far away and impos- 
sible. He looked at the poised, graceful figure in front of 
him beside Scott Stevens, with the old sensation which 
always went through him when taking cognizance of her 
exquisite femininity, and wondered again why he should 
always turn from thoughts of her to thoughts of Joyful — 
why he should forever be contrasting the two ? 

In the afternoon the party took possession of the yacht, 
roaming about as they chose. 

"Who's doing this for you?" asked Mark, as Scott 
Stevens was showing him the saloon, walking with his arm 
thrown over Mark's shoulder. "Where did you get your 
color scheme ? Gold and blue and green. It 's very good." 

"The scheme 's my own." 

"But it's tremendously artistic." 

"Why the but? After three or four years' companion- 
ship with a lot of fellows like you, why should n't it be ? 
I must have been an idiot not to imbibe a few ideas." 

"And a fine setting for the panels, if the right subjects 
are chosen." 

"Well, what would you propose ?" asked Scott. 

"A leafy glade for one," said Louise, demurely. 

Mark smiled. "I have better ideas than that." He 
returned her glance. 

"WeU," said Scott, "make a suggestion now." 


'' I '11 do it In the first place, since the color scheme has 
not been created for the panels, they must be created for it." 

" Is that intended for a sarcasm ? " asked Scott. 

"Not at alL Merely stating a fact." 

"Very well — go ahead with your ideas." 

Mark laughed, and turned away with another glance at 

"Go on, go on," cried Scott. 

"On one condition. That you understand I 'm not mak- 
ing a bid." 

"Ha, ha, ha. I'll understand anything you like." 

Miss Carlie and Mrs. Renolds joined them at this point, 
and Mr. Van Burgh followed in their wake. "Paint the 
ladies," cried he. "Put one in each panel. There's Miss 
Carlie in front of one now. Perfect ! " He stepped 
backward and looked at her through his hand." 

"Capital idea — eclipses mine. Mrs. Renolds, we'll 
paint you as the spirit of Fingal's Cave — the type of Celtic 
beauty ; and Miss Carlie — " 

" Mr. Thorn ! Did n't you propose to paint me in a deep 
sea-green Fingal's Cave motive ? How base, to slight me 
now," murmured Louise. 

"Ah, but I forgot for the moment the peculiar style of 
your beauty. I can make a Saxon, or a Grecian of you, but 
a Celt, never. If you — " 

"And what about me, were you going to say, Mr. 
Thorn ? " asked Miss Carlie. 

"The Loreley — sitting on a rock — as the poem has it 
— combing her wonderful hair in the evening glow, and 
luring poor boatmen to their death with her singing." 

"How gruesome I '11 be 1" 


"Ah, but very beautiful I" 

''And Miss Parsons?" asked Scott Stevens. 

"Shall be the fair Melusina," 

"Done," cried Stevens. "You have the order. Ladies, 
you hear?" 

" I 'm ready," exclaimed Mrs. Renolds, laughing merrily. 

"For what?" cried May Carlie. "Would you dare?" 

"For what? Why, to be immortalized — and dare? 
I 'd dare an3rthing." 

" Miss Parsons, will you take the dare ? " asked Scott. 

" I can't say I like the part Mr. Thorn has assigned me^ 
but if it 's a dare, yes." 

"Bravo!" cried Van Burgh. 

"Louise, will Aunt Kate allow me the use of that upper 
north room for a few weeks, do you think?" 

Louise laughed. "Is there anything she would not 
allow you, Mark?" 

" Mrs. Renolds, will you give me your help for a week ? " 

"Gladly. What shaU I wear?" 

"Ah, what, indeed?" 

"You said yellow satin last evening, for that character, 

He looked critically a moment at Mrs. Renolds, then 
turned toward Louise. "What I said last evening doesn't 
count. It isn't much matter what you wear, so that the 
neck and arms are not covered. I '11 use drapery and a girdle, 
at any rate. It must be semi-barbaric, you know." He 
went to a workman who was fitting in a buffet and bor- 
rowed a two-foot rule, and began measuring the pand 
space with it. 

"How long will it take you?" asked Scott Stevens. 


"I can't say. You leave soon. How long will you be 
gone ? " 

"I didn't purpose returning until September." 

*^ Very well, I '11 have them ready on your return, but I 
must tax you ladies during the next three weeks pretty 
heavily, to get the studies made." 

'^ Capital ! I shall spend a while cruising about in the 
Mediterranean next spring, early, you know, and I '11 have 
some distinguished guests. This saloon will be a unique 
thing." He looked about him with pride. "Yes, if they 
have anything better to show me over there, why — they 
may show it." 

"I've been on board several of our English yachts, and 
they are not nearly so nice, Mr. Stevens," said Miss Carlie. 

"Thanks tremendously. And now that I am to have 
the help of you ladies, Thorn wiU eclipse anythmg ever 
ventured on before." 

Then they strolled to other parts of the craft, and Scott 
Stevens took Louise to the side, and looked over at the 
workmen who were busy down below. 

"What are they doing?" asked she. 

"Painting out the old name. She's to be re-christened, 
and sail hereafter under a name that will be a mascot for 
her safety." 

"What name is that?" 

He smiled, and said in a low tone, "Louise." 





Ah, Lady wise, tell me what lies 

Beneath the softness of those eyes. 
That veiled, swift glance — but half askance, 

Is it a tribute or a lance ? 
Thought half revealed — hope half concealed, 

Lies there a lucent spring unsealed ? 
In those dark deeps, what vision sleeps? 

Hide they a heart that laughs, or weeps ? 

Three weeks had passed. Mrs. Parsons and Louise 
were gone with the Scott Stevens party for their month's 
cruise, and Mark walked alone by the sea. Not that he 
needed to be alone ; he might have had the companionship 
of Mrs. Renolds had he asked it. That lady not being one 
of the party, and Van Burgh having J&nally made his choice 
— as it was generally believed — and taken the English 
girl, she also was alone. 

Mark had just passed her where she sat apart, a book in 
her lap, her head resting on her hand, and her gaze fixed 
on the distant horizon. He might have asked her to stroll 
on with him, but he merely lifted his hat. Had Van Burgh 
really given her up, or had she dropped Van Burgh, was the 
question in Mark's mind, as he walked on. 

During the past three weeks he had seen almost as much 
of her as of Louise. The two had been much together, 
and when her own sittings were done she had still accom* 



panied May Carlie and Louise, whfle he was painting from 
them. She told Mark it was a privilege to bring back the 
old times when she used to visit his studio in Paris. Now 
as her eyes followed his retreating figure, she lifted her 
shoulders with a slight shrug. " Of course he 's genuinely 
in love with Louise — but she — " Mrs. Renolds rose, 
and sauntered slowly along, keeping her finger in her book 
at the place where she had been reading. "What a fool ! 
I 'U wager she does n't see a penny's value of difference be- 
tween him and Scott Stevens. I Ve a mind to give her a 
lesson in values,'' 

She went on down the beach and sat with her back to the 
direction Mark had taken, and resumed her reading. When 
he returned she looked up and smiled, and moved a scarcely 
perceptible inch farther to the end of the seat. He dropped 
into the place at her side, and taking up her book began 
mechanically turning the leaves. 

"Why are you roaming up and down the beach here?" 
she asked, still smiling. "Do you feel it incumbent on 
you to eschew aU companionship while Miss Parsons is 
absent ? I 'm sure she does n't demand such asceticism." 

"She? Oh, no," he laughed. 

They sat silent then, while Mark stared at the book, 
turning the pages one by one. 

"Let me take it," said Mrs. Renolds at last, and he gave 
it to her. She dosed it and folded her hands over it in her 
lap. "Now," she said roguishly, "tell me what it 's about." 

"What about? Why — it's a treatise on — how the 
moon came to be made of green cheese." 

"I knew you were mooning and not seeing it. I Ve gone 
back to the study of the classics." 


He held out his hand for the book again, and she returned 
it "Ah, 'RosaJind.'" 

" Yes, I 'm studying the part. We 're to give it in the Van 
Burgh grounds. I think it will be a unique thing. Not only 
the actors, but all the guests, are to be in costume. I was 
asked to see you to-day — they wish you to take the part 


" Of Jacques. There 's no one who could do it so well. 
You would have to age yourself and make up a good deal, 
but* that could be easily done." 

"Thanks. You have asked me most deverly." 

"Then you will do it?" 

" Impossible ! You see, I don't quite belong to your 
leisure set. I return to Boston to-morrow." 

"Indeed? Has Newport no attractions since Louise 
Parsons left?" 

"It isn't that." Mark was one who had no currency 
for blandishments. He appeared positively obtuse. "I 'm 
going to spend the rest of my summer in my studio." 
Suddenly he turned and looked at her. It was the gaze 
of an artist. She had seen her brother regard a horse he 
was appraising with the same expression. "Do you know, 
I believe I 'm going to make a fine thing out of that panel 
of yours." 

" Don't call it mine ; and promise me you will disgxiise the 
likeness. It is too apparent." 

"That isn't necessary. It will be quite as ideal if I 
do not." 

"Oh, you artists are incorrigible." 

"What now?" 

^^ That's not the reason I wish it disguised." 


"Why else?" 

She laughed good humoredly. ^'But I 'm vexed/' she said. 

''At what are you vexed ? Surely — " 

"Because you refuse to take the part." 

" Oh, but you see, I must" 

"No, I don't see." 

"I Ve given my promise to do certain paintings before 
September, and -r- there 's a more sordid necessity than the 
keeping of the promise." 

"Artists should never be under any sordid necessity." 

Mark smiled. " Poor devils," he said, " they always are." 

"Ah, if I could have my way they wouldn't be." 

"Then there would never be any art." 

"Why not? Everything would be spontaneous. They 
would work because the spirit moved them, and not under 
the lash of necessity." 

" Because they would be a set of miserable ingrates. Don't 
you know that artists are bom idlers ? If it were not for 
the lash of sordid necessity I would be playing Jacques in 
the Van Burgh grounds, instead of painting panels for the 
Stevens yacht." He rose and placed the book again in her 
hands. "I must go now," he said. He saw Van Burgh 
strolling toward them. "You will have better company — 
and let me thank you again for helping me as you did. 
We '11 have a good thing of it if I can only do my part." 
He departed, leaving his place to Van Burgh. 

"That was very kind," exclaimed the latter. "Very 
considerate of him. You see, I Ve come back again, Mrs. 

"I see," she looked at the ocean. 

"You weren't expecting me." 

"Not exactly, no." She was wondering if, after all, Mark 


knew just what he was about Van Buigh wiped his brow, 
and placed his hat at his feet 

"It 's deucedly warm," he said. 

"You must have been exercising," she looked provokingly 

"Yes, I Ve been himting you up." 

As for Mark, he did not wait for the next day, he departed 
that same evening for the dty. There he toiled in his studio 
through the heat of August, and the measure of his success 
became the amount he was to receive for his labor. He 
took time for recreation rarely, and when he did so, he 
went about alone. He never had worked more incessantly 
nor with more definite purpose ; moreover, he worked well ; 
yet he was not satisfied with himself. 

Before the month was over, he decided to leave Boston, 
and open a studio in New York where, after Louise returned, 
the social demands on his time would be less. To this end 
he spent the first week of September in the latter dty, hunt- 
ing up a suitable location. Most of his friends were out of 
town, but he did not care. The fever of work was on him, 
and his aim was more to avoid interruption, than to seek 

One evening, after a hot and fatiguing day, as he was stroll- 
ing toward the park, where it was his intention to have a quiet 
smoke, a carriage drew up to the curb some paces in front 
of him, and he became aware of the intent and smiling 
regard of its one occupant 

"Mr. Thorn! I thought I could not be mistaken* I 
saw you as I passed on the side street, and turned back. 
What a pity you would n't play thc^ melancholy Jacques 
for me ! You take the part so perfectly in life." 


"Mrs. Renolds! I didn't know you were in town. 
Why aren't you still playing the beautiful Rosalind at New- 
port ? That fascinating resort ! What charm has drawn 
you away ? " 

"The interesting people left." 

He took the vacant place at her side in obedience to her 
glance. "Apropos of the play, weren't you mistaken? 
I was just now pla)n[ng Hamlet, not Jacques. My mood 
was not engendered by sylvan solitude. I had my share 
of that earlier in the season." 

"Ah, yes. Louise told me you ran away and had an 
accident in some unfortunate maneuver, and were nearly 

"Not so bad as that. A broken bone or two, merely, so 
long ago that the event is forgotten." 

"Does every event fade out of your life so quickly? 
Then your stay in Paris must be quite gone." 

Mark laughed. "Not entirely, not entirely, Mrs. Ren- 

"You remember the Capucine friar at the artists' f^te, 
once upon a time ? " 

"I remember the Cinderella who danced with the friar, 
and cut the traditional prince." 

"I know you were going to the park for a solitary smoke. 
Don't let me spoil the hour for you. You see I 'm taking 
you there. Won't you smoke now?" 

"Thanks, my desire for the solitary is gone. I prefer 
conversation and companionship. Tell me what goes on 
at Newport." 

"Nothing, now. I simply fled from ennui. The same 
people, the same events — • My house here is being ren- 


ovated, and I came to look after it What did you come 
for? Are the panels done?" 

"Done ? No. Nothing is ever done. They may be put 
up, however. I shall work no more on them.'* 

"Louise told me yesterday — " 

"What! Are they returned? Beg pardon — what did 
she ten you?" Mark looked straight before him. His 
companion watched him without turning her head. 

"Am I really giving you news then?" she asked, with a 
slight lift of her brows. They had entered the park, and 
she gathered the reins firmly and allowed her beautiful 
horse a more rapid gait. Her manner implied much more 
than her words, and Mark felt a momentary pique that he 
had betrayed his ignorance. 

"I expected them a week ago, but as they did n't put in an 
appearance I thought to spend the interval as best I could. 
I'm moving my studio to New York." He took out a cigar 
and lighted it, turning his face away from her. "You see 
I accept your permission — thanks. What did Louise 
tell you?" 

"She said — but I really think she did n't know you were 
to leave Boston — " 

"No, it was a sudden decision." 

"Why do you? Is this a better art center?" 

" I hardly know. Either is very good for this country ; 
the only real art center, from my standpoint, is Paris. But 
to return — " 

"Ah, yes. The yacht came in three days ago. She said 
she had no idea where you were — and that she went with 
your aunt to your studio, and saw the panels. So you see, 
when I spied you, I thought I had made a great find." 


'^ You did, indeed. I 'm glad myself to know where I am. 
Did she say how she liked them ? " 

" No, but she must have liked them. You never do poor 

"I'm not so sure." 

"I am. Do you think I woidd have sat for that panel 
if I were not ? Now I 've only one change I wish made. 
Iti's too nearly a portrait, not enough of a type." 

" But it is quite as ideal, as it is. I told you so." 

"I remember, and I told you artists were incorrigible." 

"How so?" 

"The individual is nothing to an artist — his art is aU 
he thinks of. Did you think I sat for you in order to grace 
Scott Stevens' yacht?" 

He turned about and looked squarely at her, and noticed 
that she appeared younger than she had three years ago in 
Paris. She was the wife of a year then; now she had been 
a widowtwo years. Shewas beginningto Ughten her mourn- 
ing a little, and wore a most charming costume of gray 
without any relief or accent save that given by her abundant 
dark hair and her eyes. The thought flashed upon him 
that, although he had painted from her — and she had 
posed faithfully that week at Newport — he had not con- 
sidered her personality, nor fully realized her charm. He 
did not speak for a moment. 

"Yes," she continued, smiling. "You did n't look at me, 
you know. You saw my arms and my shoulders, the poise 
of my head, my complexion and my hair, but you did n't 
see me. Confess now, did you?" She looked suddenly 
and frankly in his eyes fur the first time during their con- 
versation, and he felt his senses reel. His mmd was carried 


baxrk three years, and for a moment he seemed to be whirl- 
ing about in a rapid waltz, with her in his arms. He put up 
his hand as if to brush something from before his eyes, and 

" Is n't it enough that I see you now ? I confess nothing. 
You must confess to me. Why did you sit ? " 

She turned away with a smile. " Ah, you have confessed 
very completely, Mr. Thorn. You did n't see me, you saw 
Louise, and what you were to receive." 

"Why did you sit?" he asked savagely. 

"I sat for you, Mr. Thorn. You needed a fresh model, 
and I wished to see your success." 

" You sat for me at Van Burgh's suggestion. How was I 
to know you cared to have me see in you anything more than 
a model?" 

"You are quite right," she said sweetly. Then after 
a pause, during which he had time to see what a brute he had 
been, she resumed, "I was only making a plea that you 
should destroy the likeness. I wish no one to see more in the 
picture than you saw." 

"I will destroy the whole thing, if you wish," he said 

"But that is not what I wish. It is beautiful. If you 
will pardon me I will tell the truth — which is quite uncon- 
ventional — it is the most beautiful panel of the three." 

"I grant it. Then why not leave it as it is? Why did 
you sit at all ? What do you really wish ? " 

" Since I 'm in the business of telling the truth, I '11 answer 
your questions. I sat because I wanted you to have the 
order — not for the money there might be in it, although 
that ought to be Considerable — but because — " 


** Thank you. Continue, please." 

"Because of the notice you would ge.t. It is absurd, but 
the truth — in this country you will gain more popularity 
from those paintings, among those who will see them, than 
you would from the finest effort in an exhibition. I knew, 
moreover, that if I posed for you it would secure you the 
order. Scott Stevens really knows no more about art than 
an elephant, although he likes to pose as an art connoisseur. 
What he really wanted was something unique — even bizarre. 
That three beautiful women — pardon me — who have 
an imdeniable position in Paris, New York, or London posed 
for them would be all he could ask. I also knew that neither 
of the others would pose for you if I refused. Now you 
understand why I ask to have the hint of likeness destroyed. 
I was willing — nay glad — to serve you, even at Van 
Burgh's suggestion, but I am not willing to serve Scott 

"I have been very obtuse. It shall certainly be done. 
I would demolish the whole thing gladly, rather than that 
you should have a moment's annoyance." 

"Would you defeat my purpose? No, — change the 

"Yes, yes." He was regarding her intently. 

"Do you see me now ?" she asked, with a merry twinkle. 

"You are very hard on me. How shall I please you ? I 
will do whatever you wish." 

"Then cease looking at me as if I were a model being 
appraised for a picture, and regard me as a friend. Here 
I have brought you back to the place where I found you, 
and do you really think you know where you are ? " she 
laughed lightly. 


"No. I know less where I am than ever before ; but — 
I have learned my lesson. If ever you catch me again 
looking at you as if you were a model, put my eyes out." 
They were silent after that, and she pulled the horse down 
to a walk. Presently Mark spoke again. "You say 
Stevens has no art in him. He designed that saloon, did 
he not? It is most artistic." 

"BeKeve me — a woman gave him his ideas." 

Mark's face lighted. "Was it you? He told me the 
scheme was his own." 

She smiled again. "It was not mine. And now, father 
confessor, I am in the confessional no longer. I shall not 
tell you what woman gave him the ideas, but they are not 

"This was most kind of you," said Mark, as he alighted 
from the carriage. 

" The pleasure was mine. When do you return ? " 


A shade passed quickly over her face. "Then I sha'n't 
see you again. Too bad, since I shall remain here. Good- 

"But I'm to be located in New York hereafter, you 

"Ah, yes. I am pleased." She drove rapidly away, 
and Mark stood for a moment looking after the gracefully 
roimded figure in the smart little trap. 



The years ? Nay count them not, for they are not. 

Thy life? A part, a point, a flash made visible, 

Of that vast whole men call eternity. 

Thy soul ? Yea, that thou art, apart from fears of life or death. 

Thy soul, and God — take cognizance of these. 

And of thy neighbor's soiil. These are the whole. 

These dwell in one eternal verity 

Of youth, of spring, and fruitage — all 

Encircled in the vast eternal Love, 

Glad, palpitating in refulgent light. 

Live out thy span, yet know thyself a part of this. 

Drink to the dr^s thy bitter cup or glad ; 

Yea live, and love and sing ; yea, laugh and weep ; 

And let thy body be down swallowed in the vast 

Of ocean's deep, or be held clod bound in the grave ; 

All these must pass. Thy soul, thy neighbor's soul, and God endure, 

Are verities, and part of God's eternal Now of joy. 

The last weeks of summer slipped quietly and swiftly 
away, and early frosts opened the chestnut burrs, and cast 
a mantle of glory upon the earth. The harvest moon hung 
like a burning globe over the sea, and the long mysterious 
path of light that Joyful so loved stretched over its wrinkled 
surface from the horizon's edge to the shore line at her feet. 
She could stand now in the still, sweet evenings and dream 
her dreams, for Jack was very far away and would not dis- 
turb her. He seemed to have gone out of her life. She 



had shed him as she had shed her short frocks, and if he had 
returned she would no longer have feared him. 

Sometimes she wondered that he never wrote her, but 
then dismissed the wonder with the thought that he was 
still angry with her. Moreover, in the past she had not been 
in the habit of receiving letters, for she knew no one with 
whom to correspond, imless when Elizabeth was away, 
and then the letters were few, and she had not fallen in the 
way of looking for them. Now and again her grandfather 
heard from Nathanael, in business letters concerning matters 
in which she had no interest She only learned, vaguely, 
from them, that he was somewhere in the vast West, work- 
ing in some great and large way such as was never heard of in 
their little village, and doing wonderful things. 

Elizabeth, too, heard from Nathanael, but in his letters he 
never mentioned Joyful. She marveled at this, and in her 
heart she treasured a sKght feeling of resentment toward 
him for it. Did he imagine her in love with him, that he 
took such pains to conceal from her this passion for the child ? 
What had she to do with his affairs other than to take in 
them the kindly interest of a friend ? She wondered if he 
wrote to Jojrful, but scorned to question her; and Joyful, 
whose heart was quite at peace concerning him, never men- 
tioned his name. Then Elizabeth was troubled and grew 
solicitous for Nathanael, that he should be loved by the one 
he had chosen, as he deserved to be. 

Sometimes she tested Jojrful by mentioning his name, or 
speaking of his success or loneliness off there at his new 
work, when she watched the girFs face for some sign from 
her heart, but was ever disappointed. She would only say 
she was glad or sorry, as the case might be, with never a 



flush, nor a quiver of an eyeUd to betray a deeper feeling 
underneath. She was gay and full of merry, girlish chatter, 
learning to fashion her own dresses. She walked over to 
show Elizabeth, with delight, the stuff her grandfather had 
bought her for a new dress — a strong material, thick and 
warm, for the fall was upon them. She was happy over 
some quaint old stitches of embroidery her grandmother 
had taught her, and brought her work to Elizabeth, who 
gazed at it not seeing, only thinking sadly, * ' The child does n't 
understand — she is too young and unformed — she can't 
appreciate him nor love him as he deserves." 

Then Elizabeth took more pains to teach Jojrful. She 
made her practise her music, and sing until she warbled 
Kke a bird, and Mrs. Drew would praise her. 

"Thee sings beautifully, Joyful. One of these days thee 
wiU be married and become the mistress of a home, and then 
thee will be glad of this accomplishment. Thee will fill 
thy house with song and teach thy children." Then she 
added, turning to her daughter, "I never CQuld honestly 
hold to the tenet of the Friends as to the sinfulness of music 
I longed, when I was yoimg, for such instruction as thee is 
giving Joyful." 

"Why, Mrs. Drew ! Did they think it a sin to sing?" 
asked Joyiul, who sat with her guitar on her lap, lightly 
picking the strings. 

"They hold it to be a snare of the world." 

"I 'm glad thee did n't hold it, too, mother. What would 
I have been without my music?" said Elizabeth. 

" I think I have this now. Sing with me, ' Ladye Faire.' 
Sing and see if I have the time." So they sang together 
Schubert's beautiful song, "The Wanderer/' 


"Your time is all right. Now try if you can play it with- 
out your notes." Elizabeth had simplified the accompani- 
ment for the guitar. 

"You know," said Jojrful, tossing back a ringlet that fell 
across her cheek, "I always think of three people when I 
play this." 

"Of whom does thee think, dear?" asked Mrs. Drew. 

" I think of Jack Stoddard first. You know he went away 
first." She could think of him now without flushing and 
paling, yet she seldom mentioned his name. "And then 
I think of Nathanael and Mr. Thorn. Only Nathanad could 
hardly be called a wanderer, now that he is staying in one 
place and working so hard, — and — I don't know whether 
you could call Mr. Thorn a wanderer either, for he loves a 
beautiful lady, and he 's probably working hard, too, in his 

Elizabeth laughed. "How do you know that of Mr. 
Thorn?" she asked. 

"Because he made a drawing of her once, in his notebook, 
and when I asked him if he was in love with her, he would n't 
tell me, but I know. Either he was in love with her and 
did n't want to be, but could n't help himself, or else he could 
help himself, and did n't wish to ; but he 's a lover, all right. 
You know men have to be lovers so they can have something 
to be good and true about, and Mr. Thorn said that in order 
to be a true knight, like the knights of old, a man had to do 
some good great thing for the lady he loved, and achieve 
something. I think that is what he is trying to do now." 

" Then you don't think he is a wanderer ? " 

"I don't know. A lover and a knight might be a wan- 
derer — he might have to be to achieve something. Jack 


would like to be a lover, but he would n't care anything 
about the other. He never cared about knights, anyway." 

The two women exchanged glances. " Why does the song 
make thee think of Nathanael ? " asked Mrs. Drew. EHza^ 
beth turned to the piano, and began softly to improvise. 

"Oh, he started away off alone like the Wanderer — I 
think he would choose to be a true knight first, before even 
trying to be a lover, though. He would be very valiant, 
you know, and would do his fighting first. Most likely he 's 
wearing his lady's token on his sleeve now, only under his 
coat, of course — he would not let any one see it, till he had 
won." Then she laughed out merrily, and they all three 
laughed with the contagion of her mood. But after she was 
gone, Elizabeth thought of the confidence with which Joy- 
ful had spoken of Nathanael, and concluded she had done 
her an injustice. *'She may be able to appreciate him, 
after all," she thought. 

As the summer waned, Mrs. Drew had failed perceptibly 
in health, and Elizabeth had been filled with anxiety. Now, 
with the early frosts, she had begun to hasten her prepara- 
tions for departure. 

"You would better take your mother and follow the blue- 
birds," said Dr. Welch. "Don't linger here imtil the snow 

"The bluebirds were gone weeks ago," said Elizabeth, 
looking up at the eaves, where the nest lay, ragged and 

" Yes, and so ought you to be. You may keep your mother 
many a year yet, if you'll do as I tell you. Take her to Spain 
or southern France. Anywhere away from the frosts and 
winds of these coasts." 


'^ Mother dreads the voyage." 

"Southern California will do — anywhere out of the cold ; 
but I would advise an immediate move. Keep her where 
there are interesting people." 

For this reason they left their village home suddenly, and 
mthout the usual delays of careful housewifery. Grand- 
mother had alwajrs prepared their last meal at the cottage, 
and Joyful bade them good-bye, as she had done every fall 
of her life, at her grandfather's gate. When the piano had 
been closed, and the last piece of furniture covered — when 
the house had been swept and the windows and doors all 
shut and locked — when the last trunk had been marked 
and packed in Somers' wagon, then would they drive over 
to Heatherby's cove and dine, before taking the long ride 
to the train. 

Although different in station, a loving and courteous re- 
gard had always obtained between the two families, simple 
and self-respecting; and grandmother Heatherby always 
had some little gift with which to speed her departing friend. 
This time it was a bottle of her own blackberry wine, care- 
fully packed away under the carriage seat. 

A soft Indian summer haze lay over the earth and sea, 
and the small bay smiled peacefully in the sun. It was one 
of those sweet, sleepy days of autimMi, when the world 
seems to be dreaming and waiting. Joyful stood watching 
the carriage until it disappeared from sight, and the last 
flutter of Elizabeth's handkerchief had given the silent fare- 
weD, then she turned and walked with her grandfather down 
to the little pier. 

"What are you going to do, grandfather?" she asked 
"Isn't it toostiU to safl?" 


" 'T is now, but I 'm looking for th' wind to come up 'fore 

" Grandfather, you 're not going to do it, are you ? Let 
some one else take it Make Jasper go with you." 

"Can't do that, Joy." 

"Jasper could take it alone, as well as you." 

"No, no, no. You 'nd grandmother just be patient, 'nd 
let grand-daddy do 's he thinks best." He patted the girPs 
cheek, as she stood looking up at him with great sorrowful 
eyes. " Gran'-daddy does know best, Joy. For one thing, 
Jasper would n't go f'r hire. He thinks trains 're more dan- 
gerous 'n boats," the old man laughed. " He would n't go as 
far as Boston city 'nd come back on th' train, not for money. 
What's more, he's no hand at a bargain. He'd make 
the mendin' of a rudder come to more 'n th' boat's worth. 
Like 's not he 'd let 'em charge 's much 's a hundred dollars, 
for what little repairs the boat needs — why, I could do th' 
work myself 'f I Was as spry 's I used to be. Anyhow, she 'd 
last my life out, 'f the' wan't a thing done to her. All she 
needs 's a leetle overhaulin', 'nd a good coat o' paint." 

Joyful looked critically at the sky. "Do you think this 
weather will last, grandfather?" 

' * Not likely. If the wind brisks up a bit by three, I 'U start. 
It 's not such a long run — sixteen hours, 'r thereabout with 
a good breeze, 'nd the minute I get to th' dock I 'U telegraph. 
You pack gran'-daddy's kit 'nd set it out by the side fence 
at the steps, 'nd I 'U fetch it 'long down. It 's better not to 
get Marthy excited. She asked me to get her some doth 
in Woodbury Center. I calculate 't I 'U get it in Boston ; 
'nd I '11 get you a new winter cloak, too, Joy, a stylish one." 
While the old man talked, he was busily packing away the 


few things he would need for the little trip, and Joyful sadly 
watched him. 

"Oh, grandfather, if she should have a spell — I can't 
bear it" 

"You be a brave girl, Joy. There are things sometimes 
that have to be, 'nd th' only thing to do 's to keep a stiflf 
upper lip. See, Joy — 'f you were to lie to her a leetle — 
accordin' to my way of thinkin' — not accordin' toMarthy's, 
no doubt, — but accordin' to mine, 'twould be no sin — 
not th' least." 

"Why, grandfather?" 

"Never you mind, Joy. Gran'-daddy 's in the right. 
If she asks where I be, say gran'-daddy 's gone to town — 
Boston 's town — 'nd tell her I said I would n't be back 
'fore ten anyway, 'nd that 's the truth, too. Then yotl get 
her to bed early, 'nd you go to bed, too, unconcerned — 
that 's the way to be gran'-daddy 's brave girl — 'nd she 'U 
sleep till morning, 'nd then 'U come the telegram. Somers 'U 
be over to Willoughby Junction, 'nd he '11 fetch it by noon. 
Run along up now 'nd pack th' kit. You might put in a 
leetle bottle of that wine 'nd one o' those pies I saw you 
makin' yesterday." He drew the child to him, and looked 
in her eyes with a humorous twinkle in his own. " I '11 be 
your — what do you call him? — your true knight, 'nd 
you c'n put in the pie for a love token." 

"You always are my true knight, grand-daddy — alwa)rs 
— always, grand-daddy dear." She threw her arms aroimd 
his neck, holding him down to her height, and cUnging 
tightly. "I'm not so much afraid of anything happening 
to you, as I am of her — I mean about her, you know." 

"You do 's I teU you 'nd you'll get over it better 'n 


you think. That 's my brave girl/' he called after her as 
she slowly climbed the low bliiff. 

Presently he followed her, and sat a while on the porch, 
meditating with his pipe. His wife came out to him, and 
asked if he was going to dig up the tulip bulbs and reset 
them, and he made some jovial remark, and said the tulips 
would have to set where they were a spell longer. The wind 
had not risen, and he decided if there was no breeze within 
an hour he would not leave that night. 

"I'm goin' over to Jasper's, Marthy," he said at last. 
" Have you got a loaf of bread for him ? " 

" I guess you '11 find one in the cupboard. You might take 
him a few fried cakes, too; they 're in the jar. I don't see 
what he does act the fool for, stajdn' out there all by him- 
self. He 'd better move into town, 'nd marry Susan Clara, 
'nd act like folks." 

The old man went in and returned with food in a basket 
Then he kissed his wife with a hearty smack. As he swung 
down the path, he glanced toward the sea, and saw the tree- 
tops beginning to sway on the distant edge of the wood. " I 
shan't be back till late, Marthy," he called. "Better not 
sit up for me." 

" I wish you 'd get more of that gray yam for your socks. 
I guess I 'd better knit Jasper a pair. He needs some doin' 
for 'f he does act the fool." 

Joyful came in from the siunmer kitchen. She had carried 
her grandfather's kit to the stile where the path led to the 
pier, and now she came out and sat on the porch with her 
grandmother, bringing her sewing with her. She felt guflty 
and heavy hearted. She too looked at the line of trees near 
the sea, and took note of their stirring tops in the gathering 


breeze ; then she glanced furtively at the old lady, who sat 
contentedly swaying back and forth in the rocker, while 
she knitted diligently on a gray woolen sock. 

" It seems queer to be sewing on winter dresses, and knit- 
ting wool socks, when it 's ao warm and sweet out of doors, 
does n't it?" said Joyful. 

''It's always best to be forehanded. When winter does 
set in after these warm falls, it generally comes sudden and 
sharp. Better go in 'nd try on your dress before you set 
those hooks and eyes. I want to see how it fits." 

Then Joyful tried on the dress, and her grandmother 
pinned it around her supple, girlish form, and smoothed and 
patted it down with loving touch, and turned her about 
and about, and made her walk off so she could see the ''hang 
of the skirt." 

"It's got to clear the ground well, if you be in long 
dresses," she said, eyeing her critically over the top of her 
glasses. " Seems to sag a leetle 't one side, — No, I guess it 's 
all right, 'nd I must say — I think it 's real becomin' to you, 
Joy. You do look well in it. If 't wan't that ' Praise to the 
face 's open disgrace,' I sh'd say you look more 'n well in it. 
Now you take it off 'nd finish it up this afternoon. The 
time 's passin'." 

"I don't fed a bit like sewing," said Joyful, wearily. 
" Can't I begin the quince jelly ? I feel more like working 
around than sitting still." 

"You should n't take 'Lizbeth's going so to heart. She 11 
be back in spring, 'nd meantime there 's plenty to do if you 
help grandmother good. You look 's mopin', 'nd droopin' 's 
a moltin' hen. It won't do to start the jelly this evenin', 
but you might get them over to stew, 'nd we 'U let it dreen 


over-night I always like to start jell on a good clear morn- 
ing. I guess I '11 finish the dress myself. I feel like sittin' 
still, after bein' on my feet all forenoon." 

So Joyful went out and rebuilt the fire, and pared the 
quinces and apples, and set the parings to stew. She pre- 
ferred working thus, where her grandmother could not take 
note of her anxious face ; while the old lady sat in the inner 
room, and put the finishing touches to the warm, dark dress. 

" Girls always do hate finishing things, but 't won't be 
three weeks before she '11 be glad enough it's done and ready,'' 
she said to herself, as she worked. Sometimes they chatted 
together, calling to each other from the different rooms. 

"What were you saying about Jasper, grandmother? 
He'd better marry Susan who?" 

"Susan Clara Tufts. You know that old maid 't lives in 
the little house 'nd garden beyond the Stoddards' place?" 

"Why should he marry her ?" 

"Oh, it's an old story — must 'a been ten years ago. 
Come to think, you would n't remember anything about it." 

"But tell me. Tell about it, grandmother." 

" It 's just a specimen of people's foolishness 'nd pride. 
Jasper was a good smart man. He was an excellent good 
man. Mu&t have been twenty years ago he began sailing 
with your grandfather. I know it wan't long after that he 
got engaged to Susan Clara. She was good lookin' 'nd 
smart, too, but she was proud. She was n't willing he sh'd 
fish with your grandfather for a livin'. No, he must sell 
his place there on the point, 'nd come in town 'nd keep a 
store, 'nd they both live in the old place with her mother, 
where she lives now." 

"Well, why didn't he, if he cared for her?" 


"Her mother was one of the queer sort. Some people 
seem to live on and on, and never do a thing on earth but 
keep their own folks in hot water, 'nd set the whole town 
by the ears, 'nd she was one of that kind. I could n't blame 
Jasper for not bein' willin' to have her forever settin' guard 
in his home betwixt him and his wife. So the weddin' was 
put off from year to year, and the old woman, she lived on, 
and Jasper kept on callin'. Once in the middle of each week, 
and every Sunday, 's regular as the week came round, when 
he was n't sailin', he called, for ten years. All that time 
Susan Clara was growing older, 'nd losing a trifle of her 
good looks, 'nd her mother was growing peskier, and Jasp>er, 
he was gettin' a leetle sour. I saw it growin' on him. He 'd 
say cuttin' sort of things about women in general, 'nd go 
aroimd with a kind of a cross-cut-saw look on his face 't 
wan't good to see. 

"Well, then, old Mrs. Tufts died 'nd was laid away where 
she could n't do any more harm, 'nd I said then to Jasper, 
'You go now, 'nd marry her up quick 's you can before any- 
thing else comes up.' I think he did try to set the day — 
but I don't know how it was — whether he said some bitter, 
cuttin' thing, 's he could, or whether 't was about where they 
sh'd live, or about money, or what — it seems they quarreled 
hard. Susan Clara told him he need n't call again till she 
asked him to, 'nd he said it would be a good long time before 
he gave her the chance to ask him, 'nd he went out there on 
the point, 'nd there he sets to this day, like a biunp on a log. 
He would n't take that walk in to Woodbury Center to save 
the dying. He thinks he 's a woman hater 'nd a hermit 
If he wants for anything he takes his rowboat 'nd goes to 
one of the 'longshore villages." 


" I should n't think it would be very pleasant to live that 
way — feeling angry all the time. Why don't they make 

"It 's all pride 'nd foolishness. They 're growing old with 
no comfort in life. Self-respect 's one thing — every man 
ought to have enough of that to hold his head up — but 
pride is a luxury 't won't do to indulge in too much. It 's 
like red pepper in cookin', pride is. You don't want mor 'n a 
dash of it, enough to give a tang ; but for a regular ingredient 
in daily life, there 's nothing Kke the salt of straight, good 
common sense. You better make the tea now, Joy, 'nd 
set out one of those pies. I feel 's if I 'd like a piece for 

Joyful stood in the pantry, her heart beating rapidly. 
She had put the pies in her grandfather's kit. "There 
are n't any pies here," she said at last, swallowing hard. 

"Well, I declare ! If that is n't just like father ! Look 
in the jar 'nd see if he 's taken the fried cakes." 

"Yes — they're gone, too." 

The old lady laughed good humoredly. "No wonder 
Jasper sticks to his point. He fares better with father to 
look after him 'n 's if he had married Susan Clara." She 
came out and began to make up some biscuits. "He must 
have thought he would eat supper there. Like 's not that 
was it. What does ail you, child ? You look 's white as 
a sheet." 

But Joyful pretended not to hear. She went out in the 
yard, and scattered grain to the chickens. When she came 
in, she was no longer pale. She had seen that the kit was 
gone, and she must be brave. 

Her grandmother made the task easy for her. She thought 


Joyful was looking forward to the long, lonely winter with- 
out Elizabeth, and essayed to cheer her. **WeTl have 
supper now," she said, **good biscuits and honey — I guess 
we 'U fare 's well 's they will, if they do have all the pies. 
Then you must get to bed, Joy. To-day 's been weaiin' with 
company to dinner 'nd all." 

"I 'U go to bed early, if you will. You must be as tired 
as I. You Ve done all the work, nearly." 

"We need n't either of us sit up for father. We '11 just 
leave the door on the latch, 'nd a light in the hall 'nd he can 
come in when he 's a mind to, without wakin' us." 

After supper Jojrful went out and gazed up into the sky. 
The stars were thick overhead, but a dull gray fog seemed 
to be trailing in from the sea, hiding the bluff and the wood. 
Was it fog, or only the early darkness folding over the earth 
like a mantle ? If the wind did n^t blow more than this, 
he would n't be able to get anjrwhere. She longed to go 
down to the little pier and see if it was really fog, or if there 
were any more breeze on the sea, but she was afraid her 
grandmother would follow her, and learn that the boat was 
gone, so she came in and crept silently to bed. She knew this 
was best, and there she lay with anxiously beating heart, 
listening to her grandmother's steps about the house. At 
last she heard her go to her room. Then Joyful rose 
and watched the light streaming from her grandmother's 
window in a long path out into the darkness. It made a 
great white blur there as if it were shining in mist. Joyful 
was sure it was fog. She was glad when the light went 
out, and she softly stole back to her bed, but not to sleep for 
a long weary while. It must be fog. Oh, if the wind would 
only rise and blow hard enough to drive it away ! At last 


she heard a soughing and moving of the branches of the 
sflver-leaf poplar overhead outside her window. It was the 
wmd at last. It would blow the fog away. And she slept. 
Sotmdly and sweetly she slept the happy, peaceful sleep 
of youth, lulled by the soimd of wind that would be wings 
to her grandfather's boat. Nevertheless the fog thickened 
and the night grew black. Soundly and sweetly she slept, 
undisturbed by the sudden opening of doors — undisturbed 
by the swift rush of a figure past her room and down the 
stairs, and out into the thick darkness of the night. She 
did not hear the cry from the sea — what was it? The 
scream of a bird, or the call of a woman ? " Father, Father, 
wait for me." Siu-ely it was a woman's cry that fled through 
the darkness and was gone, answering some other cry 
calling her soul through space, unheard by any other living 
ears, — surely it was a woman's cry, reaching out through 
miles of sea space crying to the soul of one who had called 
to her. Far away, far, far away to seaward, a great ship 
struck a small one in the fog, and in a moment the small 
one was gone with no sound, only a sharp and terrible cry 
that rang out through the mist and blackness, ^^Marthy !" 



Adrift I Adrift in the drifting mist I 

Adrift on the open sea. 
With never a rudder, and never a sail. 

Where rudder and sail should be. 
Nay, what avail are rudder and sail 

Where wind nor tide may be ? 
An unseen hand must guide to land. 

Or the ship is lost at sea. 

It was a raw, chilly day in the early part of December. 
The rain was driven in sharp, sleety gusts against the car 
windows, and as the train thundered into the vaultlike 
station, the smoke rose to the roof in heavy masses and then 
settled back on the passengers as they streamed out on the 
platform and hurried away in one direction. Men turned 
up their coat collars and walked rapidly, as if being drawn 
by some loadstone of purpose. Women drew their garments 
about them and pressed on with forward-looking eyes, as 
if they, too, were being drawn by that same intangible 
loadstone rapidly to some definite point. They walked 
singly, or in groups, but with no word for each other, no 
side glances nor idle satmterings and chatter. 

Only a constant and confused murmur pervaded the 
place and rose from that pouring mass of humanity — out- 
pouring like a stream hurrying to its doom in the all-engulfing 
ocean — when they came to an obstacle, never stopping, 



but swerving around it like waves about a stone, then 
closing together again inevitably, and rushing on. 

Borne among them, and carried along by them, and 
swayed to and fro with them, but never a part of them, was 
one small figure whose eyes looked wistfully out from imder 
the hood of a long cloak; such a cloak as might have 
belonged to some respectable old lady whose clothing had 
been kept carefully and neatly many years. It enveloped 
the straight, lithe form of the girl, and wrapped about her 
volimainously down to the hem of her dress, quite conceal- 
ing the willow basket which sagged heavily from her 
slender arm, and bulged the great cloak cumbrously on 
one side. 

The little being gave no heed to other luggage than this, 
but broke away from the stream pouring toward the baggage 
room, and joined the smaller and swifter current that 
formed an estuary at the emptying of that great human 

Once outside, the wind tore at her cloak, and flimg it 
about, and she paused to gather it together closely. All 
around, men screamed and called out to her, and beckoned 
with their whips. She guessed that they wished her to 
ride in their carriages, but taking up her basket again, she 
trudged on bravely into the great world, climbing the high 
street, and crossing over the rough paving with the small 
stream she had joined at the estuary. Swiftly they passed 
away, unnoticing, and dispersed, she knew not whither, 
imtil she was left alone in the midst of a long, bare block, 
still walking valiantly on in the face of the driving sleet. 

She looked up at the unending buildings, whose tops in 
diminishing perspective closed the narrow strip of gray, 


sodden sky over her head, and she gazed down the slq>pery 
street at another perspective, longer and more unending 
than the height of it, while behind her she heard the rushing 
and roaring in the station she had just left, of the outgoing 
and incoming trains. 

The sound made her think of the roar of the sea — the 
great waves rising and tossing, and falling impotently back, 
thundering their rage. "I suppose the noise keeps on like 
this all the time, and the calm never comes," she said. 

Sometimes people came out from the great buildings and 
hurried past her. She wondered where they went. She 
felt hungry, and looked for a clean, dry place where she 
might sit quietly and eat her lunch. She looked back at 
the black hole — the opening of the station she had just 
left, and imagined she might see carved in the stone, over the 
entrance, the words, "All hope abandon, ye who enter 
here." "Only the words ought really to be on the other 
side of that great noisy place. It would n't be abandoning 
all hope to go away again," she thought. She felt her cloak 
striking heavily and wet against her feet. " If grandmother 
could see, she would n't like it a bit for me to get it so 
draggled and wet." 

She passed immense dark warehouses, and strange odors 
came out to her. Now she thought she smelled new shoes, 
and saw through the windows heaps upon heaps of leather 
skins piled, and still beyond her the street stretched, and 
many narrower and more crooked ones strayed off here 
and there. Should she take one of these? Perhaps they 
might lead to somewhere. 

Pedestrians were few, but heavily loaded trucks rumbled 
through the streets continually, and cars loaded with 


passengers jangled by. She never thought of taking one of 
these. Then she came to the stores with their plate-glass 
fronts. The goods displayed showed dimly through the 
steam within and the rain and! sleet without. Here were 
more people and carriages, and she began to feel herself 
overcome with weariness and the confusion about her. 
Everything seemed so loud, and people rushed and hurried 
so, but no doubt they wished to get in out of the rain. 
Little boys screamed at her and held out papers toward her, 
but she pressed on and passed them by as she saw others 
do. At last she began to reason with herself. She must 
get somewhere. She could n't walk on like this forever. 

Somers had given her many directions as he drove her 
over to Willoughby Junction in the early morning, having 
as much knowledge of the city and its ways as a cow might 
have. She mustn't be afraid to ask people where she 
should go, and she must look out about trusting people too 
much, too. She must n't believe everything they told her, 
they might want to cheat her in some way, but she must 
look out not to get lost, and she must ask her way around. 

So she proceeded to look earnestly into each face that 
passed her for some one to ask, but every one seemed pre- 
occupied, and walked with head lowered against the 
storm. No one seemed care free, only two girls who walked 
huddled together xmder one umbrella eating candy out of 
a paper bag. They jostled against her, but did not seem 
to see her. 

At last a man came toward her swinging a tin dinner pail. 
He walked more slowly and did not appear to be minding 
the storm, and his face looked kindly, like her grandfather's. 
She spoke to him, but so low he could not hear her voice 


above the street noises, yet,becatise she stood still and looked 
lip in his face, he stopped and looked down at her. 

^' What is 't?" he asked. 

She repeated her question louder. "Can you tell me 
where to go?" 

"I can, if you'll tell me where you want to go." They 
drew nearer the store window, for they were jostled where 
they stood. 

"I want to go to some place where I can find work to do, 
or to teach, to earn my Uving." 

"Oh, you want to get a place. Well, where are you 
staying ? " 

"Not anywhere yet. I've only just come." 

"Well, if you want to get work, and want to get it right 
away, you go over to that place," he pointed to a little 
building set in between two high ones. "That's an intelli- 
gence oflBice. They '11 tell you where to go." 

She looked across the street in a bewildered way. It was 
not very wide, but the confusion of traflBic and passing of 
vehicles made it seem to her well-nigh impassable. Yet 
others were going across; she could do what they did — 
and anyway she must be brave. So she lifted her head 
and said, "Thank you," almost as if she knew her own 
business, and the man walked on. 

A moment she stood poised on the curbing, watching the 
great draft horses' feet slip about on the icy paving, and in 
that moment a carriage passed, and a woman with a large 
pallid face and small keen eyes looked out at her through 
the window, apprehending in one swift glance every detail. 

Joyful felt the gaze, and wondered why the woman should 
regard her so. Was she not clean and neat and doing what 


she ought? She held herself erect in her self-respecting 
pride, and ventured forward. Others were suddenly pass- 
ing across, and a huge, blue-coated policeman was holding, 
the vehicles back for them. She glanced up in his face 
with gratitude, and he saw the glance and smiled. The 
place she entered seemed like a country shop that had beem. 
belated and hopelessly entangled among the great buildings 
aroxmd it. The counter was covered with a strange assort- 
ment of clothing, and in glass cases against the wall were 
hung all sorts of half- worn garments with tags on them. 

A woman was making change for a man who waited at 
the desk. She looked over the top of her glasses at Joyful. 
"Looking for a place?" she asked. "Go right through in 
there 'nd sit down. I '11 *tend to you in a minute," and 
Joyful passed on into an apartment curtained off from the 
rest of the store. Several girls and one or two women were 
seated around the walls, some neat and smart looking, and 
others slatternly and listless. 

She took the only chair left vacant, and looked about 
her. The room was close and dark, but for a single electric 
bulb hanging from the ceiling. She put her basket down 
and imdid the fastening of her cloak. She felt faint and 
weary, and leaned her head back and waited with closed 
eyes, and hands clasped in her lap. The noises of the street 
came to her in a confused roar, and she wondered if they 
ever ceased. Presently she became aware that some one 
was addressing her, and opened her eyes and looked into 
the face she had seen through the carriage window. 

"Feeling faint?" The voice was low and quiet, and 
soimded almost indifferent, but the eyes were bright and 

\ ' 



^'Looking for a place ? " 


"Where did you come from? What kind o£ a place do 
you want ? " 

The woman with the glasses came in and began speaking 
to one of the others. She turned to the questioner. "We 
don't know anything about her; she 's just come in." She 
took a pencU from her hair and began writing on a card 
which she handed to one of the girls. "The name of the 
place is on that card. You can bring the dollar in a week," 
she said. "What did you say your name is?" she turned 
from one to another in a curt way. 

"My name is Jo)H[ul Heatherby." 

The pallid woman took the chair just vacated, and drew 
it nearer Jojrful. "I will question her while you look after 
the rest, if you are hurried," she said quietly. 

Then Joyful straightened herself and sat very rigid, 
trying to keep her Up from quivering while she answered 
all the questions carefully and conscientiously. 

The woman did not smile nor show the least surprise in 
her impassive countenance when Joyivl told her she had 
come to Boston to get a place in a yoimg ladies' school to 
teach French. She did not ask her credentials nor refer- 
ences, nor did she tell her this was not the place to go to 
look for such a position. She put her questions very quietly, 
and the shop woman was too busy to heed the low, broken 
replies as Joyful told of her home, and the loss of all but a 
few scattered friends; for she had not yet heard from 
Elizabeth when she left the lonely little cottage. 

"Weill I keep a yoxmg ladies' school; I guess you 'U do 


for the place." And Jo)H[ul's heart bounded at her qiiick 
success. It was past the noon hour, and she had breakfasted 
long before daylight, and had not known where to go for 
food or lodging, but she had thought she might ask the 
woman who kept the shop. She had a little money in the 
bosom of her dress, which she thought would keep her for 
a time until she could find work. Now she rose gladly to 
follow the woman out. 

Then the shop woman addressed her. "You can pay the 
dollar next week," she said. "It*s for getting you the 
place," she explained, noting Joyful's look of surprise. 

"Oh, is it a dollar? I can pay it now." 

"Better wait until you see how you like the place." 

"She '11 be sure to like it," said the other woman, handing 
out her own fee. " You take orders for cleaning and dyeing ? 
I '11 send down some things, and I '11 see that her dollar is 
paid, myself." She gave the shop woman a card, and they 
passed out, leaving her scrutinizing it keenly through her 

"Who 's Madame Redding La Grande ?" she asked of her 
assistant, who was busy doing up the dyed garments in 
packages, and marking them. 

"I don't know. You 'd better keep the card. You may 
want it." 

In the carriage Madame Redding La Grande occupied the 
whole of the back seat, and placed Joyful on a low seat 
facing her, with her basket at her side, and they drove away 
in silence. The windows of the vehicle were tightly closed, 
and the air was heavy and fetid. A wild desire seized 
Joyful to jump out and escape, or to strike at the woman 
before her and scream out like a child. She did not like the 


narrow, watchful look that was fixed on her face through half- 
closed lids, and at length she became unable to look at the 
woman's coimtenance with its immovable lines, so she closed 
her eyes, and clasped her hands tightly beneath her cloak 
to keep them from trembling. It seemed only a moment 
after that she was revived by a draft of cool, damp air 
across her face, and she roused herself wonderingly to see 
the woman outside the coach, holding the door open and 
speaking to her. 

*'You seem pretty tired," the woman was sa3dng, "and 
no doubt you Ve had no lunch. You can go right to your 
room, and I '11 send you up some tea." 

The tone was cool and monotonous, but the words were 
kind, and Joyful tried to feel that she liked her, as she 
followed her up stone steps into a house that seemed to her 
grand enough to be a palace — where the ceilings were very 
high, and mirrors reached from the floor to the cornice — 
where the carpets were soft and thick, and velvet curtains 
hung in the doorways. 

The grandeur and richness of it all filled her imagination, 
and overpowered her. She staggered as she stood in the 
great hall and gazed into the rooms opening from it, but 
Madame La Grande did not see this. She went steadily on 
up the stairs. "Come," she said, without pausing or look- 
ing back, and Joyful gathered all her strength, and followed. 
Up one flight of stairs, and then another and narrower 
flight, and along a hall to a small room at the far end, she 
crept. Why her heart sank within her at every step, she 
could not tell. Surely this was splendor beyond her 
wildest imaginings. 

"There. This will be your room for a while, imtil 


you 're used to your duties and the ways of the house. You 
would better change your clothes, and clean up a little, and 
rest. I '11 send you something to eat, and then we '11 have a 
talk later. Is this all you have, just this basket?" 

"I have a trunk, a small one; but I left it at the station. 
They gave me this when I started, and told me to send for 
it when I knew where I was to be." She held out the 
brass check. 

"That's right. Give it to me, and I 'U have the tnink 
sent to your room as soon as it comes." 

" It won't come xmtil they get that. Mr. Somers said so." 

The woman did not smile at Jo)rful's simplicity. She 
went away, taking the check with her. "Very well, I'll 
see to it," she said. 

For a moment. Joyful stood still in the middle of the 
room, thinking in a dazed way. Hpw had it all come 
about, just as she wished, and so quickly ! She wondered 
where the yoimg ladies were whom she was going to teach. 
She had seen none. Then she spread the great cloak on 
a chair to dry, and unpacked the basket. Besides a change 
of imderclothing and other necessaries, it contained one 
gingham dress, a few collars and ribbons, and a few French 
books. These last she arranged on a table with her prayer 
book and hymnal and Bible. Then she removed her damp 
clothing, but before she had redressed herself Madame 
La Grande returned with a stupid-looking maid bearing 
tea and bread and butter. 

She had knocked and then entered without waiting for 
a response, and Joyful shrank back dismayed and abashed 
at her uncovered condition, but this the woman did not 
seem to notice. She dismissed the maid and placed the 


tray herself on Jo)H[urs little table, shoving the books to one 
side to make room for it. She laid out some dry stockings 
and underwear. "I thought maybe you didn't have dry 
things with you," she said. 

Joyful cowered behind the skirts she had not had time to 
don. "Thank you, yes, I have them, but — you are very 
kind." She wished the woman would go away, and 
stood shivering and waiting. 

"You would better put on your clothes, before you take 
cold," said the woman, e3dng her critically. She seated 
herself beside the table and poured out the tea. "You 
have a rarely good figure, but you 're far too pale. Don't 
you ever have any more color?" 

Joyful saw that she had no intention of taking her 
departure, so she scrambled into her clothing as rapidly as 
possible, and sat down in confusion and shame. Madame 
La Grande poured two cups of tea, and put a little liquor 
in each from a small flask which she took from a cupboard 
in the wall. 

" I '11 leave this here, so you can have it when you need it. 
It 's good to keep you from taking cold, and — for a good 
many other things. If you should get homesick or blue, 
it will set you up and make you feel all right. Well, you 
have color enough now. I guess you '11 not be too pale, as 
a general thing. Now drink this and eat a little. You 
need n't look so frightened. You 'U find it very nice here, 
and the girls are all kind-hearted." 

Joyful took the cup from her hand and tasted it, and 
forced herself to swallow a few mouthfuls of food, but she 
could not speak. She tried to say something, but her 
throat closed spasmodically, and she remained silent. 


"When your trunk comes, you would better put on some- 
thing a little more dressy to come down to dinner in. The 
house is warmed by steam, so you won't be cold, if you wear 
something thin. The girls dress a good deal at dinner, 
and you '11 want to be one of them, you know." 

"I 'm afraid I haven't much to wear that you will like. 
I have never lived in a place like this before." 

"Oh, wdl — you '11 soon fall into the ways here, and you 
can get other things as you need them." 

"When will the lessons begin?" asked Joyful, timidly. 
She wanted to ask how much she was to receive for them, 
but her throat closed on the question imuttered. 

"Oh, any time the girls like. Would n't you better drink 
up the rest of your tea ?" Then Joyful drank her tea, and 
presently she felt the exhilaration of it, and her cheeks 
brightened. " Now you feel better, don't you ? " Madame 
La Grande rose and stood looking down at her. "We 
dine at seven. After you 're rested, you might come down 
and sit until dinner — if your trunk comes in time." 

Joyful rose and looked up into the impassive face gravely. 
"Thank you. You are very kind to me," she said. She 
longed to throw her arms around her neck and cry on her 
bosom, but no. She could not touch the woman — she 
knew not why. So she stood, with heart throbbing tc 
express its loneliness and its longing, and with arms that 
ached to embrace a dear one hanging straight at her side; 
and Madame La Grande left her standing thus, and shut 
the door softly as she went. 



But of the man ? Nay, that is neither here nor there-— 
For he was but a man, — and she, they say, was fair. 
So let it pass. Alas I 

An hour crept slowly away. Joyful sat with her grand- 
father's great silver watch, gazing at the circling second hand 
spining round and round. Her eyes filled with tears which 
she constantly wiped away. Presently she heard a heavy 
step along the hall, and a man entered, who carelessly 
deposited her small tnmk on the floor. Then he stood a 
moment looking at her and grinning unpleasantly. She 
thought he wanted pay, so she opened her pocket-book. 

"It's been paid for," he said, and strode off. 

She hated the man's grin. "He must have seen I had 
been crying," she thought. So she crowded back her tears, 
and washed her face to hide their traces. " Grand-daddy" 
would like her to be brave. Then she opened her tnmk, 
and put on the pink dimity dress. She loved the white 
one better, but this must do. She would save the other for 
Sunday. She hoped Madame La Grande would not want 
her to wear her best things every day. She could not 
afford that. 

She thought of Elizabeth, so far away — perhaps across 
the ocean, and knowing nothing of her sorrow — and 
again her tears flowed; but she felt ashamed to cry any 



more, since she had found a position the very first thing, 
and could begin to earn her own living at once. Then she 
knelt beside her bed, and prayed that she might teach well, 
and that those she loved might be kept from harm. How 
few they were ! Mrs. Drew and Elizabeth first, and then 
Nathanael, and Mr. Thorn, and last of all Jack. But she 
did not pray that he might come back to her, as in her 
heart she did of the others. No. If he came back now, 
she would have no more excuse, and would have to marry 
him — perhaps. 

It grew dark in the room, and she went out in the hall, 
which was dimly lighted at the far end. The place seemed 
as silent as the grave, and no one was to be seen. A sense 
of dread stole over her, and her nerves tingled as she crept 
slowly, peering into the shadows, to the end of the corridor 
and down the stairs. 

Here two lights were burning, and the gilt brass fixtures 
seemed splendid to her. She passed closed doors, and 
thought she heard voices behind some of them. Her feet 
sank deep in the velvet carpet, and the silence of her own 
tread seemed uncanny. Suddenly she stood still, appalled. 
A crash, and the sound of breaking glass, accompanied by 
wild shrieks of laughter, sounded through an open transom 
overhead. She clung to the stair railing, trembling and 
white. Why did they laugh like that? Were they the 
ones she was to teach ? She would never be able to manage 
girls who laughed that way. Then the door was thrown 
open and a young woman swept out. Joyful thought her 
the most beautiful being she had ever looked upon. 

She seemed more diaphanous than real. Her head had 
a pretty tilt like the head of a bird, as she stood a moment 


looking down at Joyful. Her neck and anns were bare, 
and she moved along as if she were borne on her swirling 
draperies instead of treading the ground. She would have 
passed on, but the sad appeal in Joyful's eyes drew her 


"What do you want?" she said pleasantly. "Is there 
anything I can do for you ?" 

"Only to show me where to go, thank you. I am the 
new French teacher, and Madame La Grande told me to go 
down to the parlor when I was ready." 

"The new — what?" The young woman's voice had a 
note of dismay, and her eyebrows lifted. 

"I am to teach French here." 

"Oh, I imderstand." She smiled and closed the door 
quickly after her of the room she had just left. "Well — 
don't go to the parlor. Come with me to my room — it 
will be pleasanter. Were you frightened at the noise? 
It is only Bess and Nan acting like limatics. One of them 
kicked over the table with all the glasses." 

She floated on ahead of Joyful the whole length of the 
corridor, and threw open a door into a large and luxuriously 
furnished apartment. A bed with wonderfully embroidered 
counterpane stood in an alcove, and there were divans and 
cushions, and window seats and cushions, and deep chairs 
and cushions — Joyful thought there were cushions enough 
to furnish twenty homes. On a beautiful inlaid French 
dressing table were many silver articles, and on the walls 
were pictures in gold frames of little cupids, and beautiful 
ladies. Disposed about on shelves and tables were vases 
and lamps of gold and green, and figures in white marble, 
and on the floor were footstools and rich rugs. 


Joyful gazed with amazement, while the older girl 
smilingly watched her. Presently her eyes fastened on a 
piece of tapestry representing a man in fancy costume, 
bowing, hat in hand, to a lady equally ornate as to dress. 

"Do you like that?" asked the girl. 

"I don't know. I always thought Louise De la Vallidre 
much more beautiful than that." 


"I don't see how she could charm the heart of a king 
otherwise — and he — ' 

'Go on. What of him?" Still she paused. "Come. 
What is it about him?" 

"I 'm afraid I 'm not very polite, criticizing your pictures." 

The girl laughed. "I don't care. What is it?" 

"He looks just like a dressed-up doll I saw once." 

Then the girl laughed again, and there was a quality in 
the laugh that struck Joyful unpleasantly. She turned 
and looked at her gravely. 

"I don't care what you say about my pictures, you're 
unique. Come and sit here beside me, you pretty little 
pink thing, you!" 

"I will sit here, thank you," said Joyful, taking a chair 
facing her. She sank far down in its cushioned depths 
and seemed lost. 
. "No, sit here beside me. That's a man's chair." 

"I'm afraid I shall crush your beautiful dress." 

"No, you won't." She gathered the pile of shimmering 
ruffles about her. " Here 's a place. I wish to talk with you 
comfortably, and I can't while your great eyes stare at me 


Joyful took the seat timidly. She was hurt. "I did n't 


mean to stare at you — but — you are more beautiful 
than any one I ever saw before." 

The girl gave a low, soft laugh of pleasiire. "I Vebeen 
told that before, but never by a girl," she said. She put her 
arms about Joyful and drew her close. "Come. Don't 
be so stiff. Snuggle up here and tell me where you come 
from. How did you know that was a picture of Louise 
De la Valliere and old Louis?" 

"Oh, I have read about them in my books. I love Marie 
Antoinette best of all, don't you ? I 'm glad we live nowa- 
days, when people are not so wicked as that old king was." 

The girl's lips curled. "He was only a bad old man, just 
like the men nowadays." 

Joyful lifted her head and looked in the girl's face. 

"Yes, bad, bad, bad !" Her eyes glowed, and the last 
words were almost screamed in Joyful's ears. "I tell you 
half the men — more than half — are worse than old 
Louis, and they are willing to make us like themselves. I 
know what they are. I understand them." 

Joyful tried to rise, but was drawn back and held in 
those quivering bare arms. 

In her mind the historic sins were shrouded in the ro- 
mance of mystery, like the sins of the Greek gods. She 
had never learned to connect the thought of active evil 
with the present age. Her grandfather had read the news-' 
papers down at the village store at home, giving expurgated 
accounts of the world's happenings, and her grandmother 
had subscribed to a weekly church paper and a small 
missionary sheet that came into the house once a month ; 
while Joyful had dreamed out her happy little life with her 


old books, and was filled with a strange wisdom that went 
straight to the heart of things without circumlocution or 
sophistries. Now she lay there — crushed, like a hurt 
creature, wondering and frightened. 

Presently the girl laughed again, and released her, then 
drew her close as before, and petted her. "There! I 
have scared you. Never mind. I am very angry just now 
— at a man — but we'll talk of something pleasant." 
She rose and lighted a lamp with a pink shade that cast 
a rosy glow over them both. "Ah, you look like a pink rose 
now, k la France. You pretty thing — you'd captivate 
any one. You 'd draw the heart out of a mandrake. She 's 
a cute one, Madame La Grande is. Tell me now everything 
about yourself. Who are you, and how on earth did you get 
in here ? She found you and brought you, I 'U warrant." 

A feeling of reserve came upon Joyful, and she drew away, 
but the girl seized her again forcefully. 

"Don't draw away from me. I can't bear it. You come 
from the coxmtry, don't you ? You 're as fragrant as the 
hills, and as fresh and sweet as a wild flower, and you have 
thorns, too, no doubt. If I were walking on a hillside, and 
should see a wild rose, I would snatch it and hold it, and 
love it, even if the thorns drew blood from my very heart. 
Tell me, why do you shrink from me ? Is it a feeling inside 
you as though I were — as though you don't wish to be 
too near me — to touch me — ? " 

There was a pathetic quiver in the voice, and Joyful was 
moved for the first time to active responsiveness. She put 
up her hand and touched the girl's cheek with timid yet 
tender caress. 

"No, no. You are so beautiful, I would rather sit 


where I can look at you. You are not like a rose, as you 
say I am, but you are a white lily, only not cold and proud 
like one, but so wonderful and beautiful. You are like a 
dream girl, and here I am crushing your lovely dress. Are 
you going to a party ? Do you dress like this every day ? " 

"No, and yes. At least, sometimes I do." She gave a 
short, derisive laugh, and Joyful shrank from her as before. 
"What is the matter?" 

"Why do you laugh that way ? I saw a man smile once, 
and his smile looked as your laugh sounds." 

"So? You are sensitive to moods. I was thinking of 
the aptness of your comparison. White lilies are put on 
the altars of churches, and in the hands of brides. Well, it 
may come to the same thing at last. After a time they are 
thrown into the ash heap, or in the gutter." 

She reached over her head and touched a bell, and a boy 
appeared, wearing a green suit with brass buttons. 

"Jim, have two dinners sent up this evening — a bottle 
of champagne and one glass. Hear? One glass." 

The boy nodded and went away. 

"What a pretty suit he wears," said Joyful. 

"Yes?" This time the girl's laugh was a merry one. 
"You noticed I said one glass. That was because I shall 
give you no champagne. I am going to keep you as you 
are, and not let you get spoiled. I shaU have your dinners 
sent up with mine. You shall not eat with those common 
girls who go down in the restaurant below." 

"Am I to teach them French?" 

The girl bit her lip. "Possibly," she said carelessly. 
" You can teach me French, at any rate. Now go on. Tell 
jne about yourself. How came you to learn it ? " 


So the two sat there in the warm rosy light, the stamed 
and the innocent, close clasped in each other's arms, heart 
beating against heart, while Joyful told the story of her 
simple, sweet yotmg life, and the sorrow that had come into 
it, and when she finished, the tears were rolling down the 
girl's cheeks, and it was Joyful who essayed to comfort her, 
and not she Joyful. 

The dinners had been brought and were getting cold, 
** Don't mind me," said the girl. "I laugh when I 'm sorry 
and cry when I 'm glad. I have n't been so happy in three 
years. I have n't held anything so pure and sweet in my 
arms. It 's like holding a baby." Then she pushed her 
away and laughed. "I can't hold you forever. This is 
only a mood — a moment. Now we must eat." 

Then she bathed her face, and touched it lightly here and 
there with powder and a dab of rouge. "You see, I mustn't 
be ugly, whatever I do — only I have n't arrived at the hair- 
bleaching stage yet. That comes later." 

The look Joyful gave her was uncomprehending. "You 
never could be ugly, if you tried. What is the hair-bleach- 
ing stage ? Getting gray ? You won't be gray for years 
and years. That red on your cheeks makes you look a little 
feverish. You were prettier without it." 

" Then I '11 wash it off. There — is that better ? You see 
it 's just a part of my dress, the red is. Call me Marie. That 
is my name — Marie Vaile. Yours is the prettiest name." 

"Marie? Why between us we make Marie Antoinette, 
the queen of sorrows. My middle name is Antoinette, after 
my mother." 

" So ? Then don't let Madame La Grande call you Joyful 
Tell her you wish to be called Antoinette." 


"Why? I have always been caUed Joyful." 

"So I supposed, but here I would n't go by that name — 
because — Antoinette is more Frenchy, you know — and 
if you are to teach French, it would be best to be in keeping 
with your French name." 

"Yes. I hope they'll like me. Don't you think I was 
very fortimate to find a situation so soon ? But I suppose 
I ought to make some arrangement about — how much I 
am to receive — ought I not ? She did n't say anything 
about that." 

"Didn't she? Well, eat, little pink rose, eat. Don't 
worry. I 'U ask her to let me have your services alone for 
a little while — a few weeks — until — " 

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Marie, with a 
frown of impatience, rose. "There she is after you, no 
doubt. You stay right here and don't stir." She went 
out, closing the door quickly after her. 

Joyful felt her heart beating up in her very throat. For 
the first time in her life she feared. She was afraid of 
Madame La Grande. When at last Marie returned — a long 
time it had seemed to Joyful — her step was buoyant, and 
her face wore an expression of triumph. She said nothing, 
but leaned back, sipping her wine, and regarding Joyful 
intently. Presently she raised her glass between her eye 
and the light, and then lifted it high above her head. 

"Here 's to Madame La Grande. May she soon die and be 
buried and rot," she cried, and drank to the last drop. "Don't 
be scared, child, this bottle is n't half gone yet. I 'm sorry 
you can't have any. Look here. Look in my eyes. Tell 
me. Don't you think she 's charming ? " 



*' Madame La Grande." She poured herself another glass, 
and drank it off, and then filled the glass again and put it 
to her lips. Joyful turned pale and caught her hand. 

"Oh, why do you? Don't drink it. I 'm sure it's not 
good for you." 

'* Yes it is. It keeps me up." 

But Joyful still held her hand. "Then if it's good for 
you, why don't you give it to me ? Dear, beautiful Marie 

— tell me — tell me what is the matter here ? What is it 
you know that I must not know?" 

"Nothing, child, nothing. I'm so constituted that I 
have the gift of hating. You needn't be horrified — do 
you like her, yourself ?" 

"I don't know. I feel a little — I never was afraid of 
any one before." 

"I believe you. Listen, child — " she pointed to 
a door opening from her apartment at the side. "They 
are moving your things in there. Your room is to be right 
here, close to mine, and you are to teach me and stay near 
me, and I have promised her all kinds of things in regard 
to you — I 've told her lies enough to tiim your hair gray 

— bleach it, you know." 

The lad in the green suit interrupted them. He brought 
Marie a card. She rose and ran to the mirror. "Wait a 
minute," she said, and hastily writing something on the 
back of the card, returned it to the boy. "Give him that," 
and the boy went out. Then turning to Joyful she placed 
her two hands on her shoulders and looked down in her 
face. "Listen," she spoke rapidly, "go into that next 
room and lock your doors, and stay there until I come to 
you. You — you can't understand — but this school is 


— it is n't managed very well and — some of the pupils are 
a little rude. You won't like them — brought up as you 
iave been — I'm going to see that you are happy here. 
Even if I have never seen you before — I love you, and you 
must trust me and do what I say. Will you ? That room 
fe much nicer than the one you were in. It has every 
convenience — and — don't be worried, dear, I will be near 
you. You — you '11 trust me ? " 

Joyful lifted her arms and placed them aroimd the girl's 
neck. Her eyes filled with tears. " I '11 do whatever you 
say — I don't tmderstand — but — " 

Marie took her in her arms and strained her dose. Joy- 
ful thought she heard her breathe the words, "Oh, God !" 
" Now hurry, dear," she said. " Some one is coming. Take 
the tray with you — I don't wish anything more. Here, 
give me the wine. I '11 come soon." 

Joyful passed into the next room, and Marie turned the 
key iQ the lock after her. Then she drank the rest of the 
wine in the glass, and placing the bottle on the table turned 
facing the door and stood still in the middle of the floor 
waiting. She heard the rap, but said nothing. Then the 
door was pushed open and Scott Stevens entered. He closed 
the door softly after him and paused before her. She did 
not speak. 

"Well, I am here." 

"I see." 

"Why did you send for me ? " 

"Because I was tired of being here without you." 

She stood in the warm red glow, with her arms dropped 
at her side, straight and tall, her small head poised high, 
and her brilliant eyes fixed on his. He continued to gaze 


on her as if fascinated, then took a step nearer and held out 
his arms. She stepped back. 

"You might at least shake hands." She was silent. 
" Well, I can be seated, at any rate. I have n't long to stay, 
so we may as well talk while I am here." 

He threw aside his hat and coat, and dropped into the 
great chair Joyful had seemed lost in. He was in evening 
dress, and as he slowly removed his gloves, Marie watched 
him, stiU standing, and without turning her head. How 
white his hands were — like a woman's — and he wore 
a flower in his buttonhole — a tuberose. The odor seemed 
to fill the room. How she hated it ! Some woman had 
placed it there, no doubt. He reached out and took her 
impassive hand and drew her toward him, pulling her down 
to a seat on the cushioned arm of the chair in which he sat. 

"Now, this is more comfortable. What is it, Marie? 
Haven't the bills been paid promptly?" 

"I hate the smell of that flower," she said. " Who put it 

" Very well, it is gone." He took it out and thrust it in his 
vest pocket. "Now what ? Come, kiss me. What a cold 
reception this is ! " 

She turned her head away so that he could only see the 
curve of her cheek and the tip of her perfect chin. "No, 
I did n't ask you to come here to kiss me. You must come 
of your own accord for that." 

"But I will kiss you, and I am here of my own accord." 
He touched his lips to her shoulder and drew her down tmtil 
her head rested on his breast. "You play the very devil 
with me, Marie, — all my good resolutions fly to the winds 
when I get here with you." 


" Good resolutions ? " 

"Yes — good resolutions. You Ve heard of such things, 
have n't you ? I must lead a very different life — you know 
— sometime." She lifted her head, but he drew it down 
again and patted her cheek. "Things can't go on forever 
in the same way — you know. I have a place to fill in the 
world, and I must fill it respectably. Come, now, listen 
sensibly. I will provide for you. You need n't fear. I '11 
see that you have everything you need — everything you 
want, even." 

"Then it's true — you are going to — " 

"Marry? Yes, and live straight." 

She struggled from his grasp to her feet and stood before 
him a moment with her hand at her throat. Then she spoke 
slowly, with white, dry lips. 

"Marry? Live straight? Good resolutions? I — I 
play the devil with them ? Scott Stevens, if there is such 
a thing in the universe as a personal devil, you are he." 

"Marie, be reasonable." 

"I was never more so. You! You! Look at yourself . 
Who are you ? What are you ? " Suddenly she threw her 
arms above her head and dropped on her knees at his side 
and clasped her hands on his breast. "Don't kill me. 
Oh, I shall die ! You — you promised. Don't you re- 
member when you came and took me from my home, my 
sweet home? Think what you promised. I threw away 
everything. I gave you my soul, Scott. We are married, 
you and I. If there is a God, He knows we are married. 
You can't leave me." 

"I promised — yes — there are times when a man will 
promise anything. " He took her hands in his, and she bowed 


her head upon them, shaking and sobbing. "Now, Marie, 
this is of no use. It had to come sometime, you know. 
When it comes to marrying, a man can't marry a girl who 
has done what you have — " he paused. 

**Go on, go on. Say all you have to say." 

^'That'saU, Marie." 

"You knew all the time that you could turn aroimd some 
day and be respectable, and I could not ? " She drew back, 
and once more stood before him, cold and white with passion. 
"You can sit there and smile ? An hour ago I could have 
put a knife into your heart — now I would n't soil my hands 
with your blood. Respectable man ! A girl, because she 
loves a man, spends on him all the gold of her heart. A 
woman, lavish of her love, because she adores, and lays her 
soul at the feet of a man, may not be respectable — while 
he — he may take it all — may lure her to the very doors 
of hell, and then — if he will only leave her there, and go 
his own straight way, he is respectable — faugh ! Take 
your respectability. Go out among your kind, and hold 
up your head. A man knows no shame. Society loves a 
man with a stain." 

"See here, Marie, I '11 have no more of this." 

"No, you will be respectable. I love respectability. 
Come, let's be respectable together." 

"You may remain in these apartments as long as you 
wish — " 

"With a viper to stand guard over me — " 

She was losing ground in her frenzy, and he cooUy, re- 
lentlessly talked on. "I will leave you enough to pay all 
your bills — how much do you need ? " 



"If you wish, I will send you back to your father." 

" I will never go back to England. They think I am dead. 
It 's too respectable there." 

" Here, I have placed this sum in the bank to your account; 
you can draw it as you need. You can keep these apart- 
ments as long as you wish — " 

"Oh, Scott, did n't I tell you I sent for you because I was 
tired of being here without you ? Now — if you leave me 
here in this way — I can never get away — that cat will 
keep me. Scott, I will not go one step deeper in the mire 
for you. You must not leave me here. Scott, oh, Scott, 
when you took me away from my beautiful England, did n't 
you love me, Scott? All those long sweet days up and 
down the Mediterranean — we two — so happy — you 
said you loved me. I did n't care what became of me then, 
because I had you. I wish you had never brought me back 
to land. You would have been kinder, if you had thrown 
me into the sea — then — while I was happy. You remem- 
ber how the sharks used to swim aroimd the boat and gleam 
white in the water? I wish I had leaped over the side, 
and they had eaten me. Take me away again, Scott. Sail 
with me away in that simMner sea again. All your love will 
come back — look at me — I am beautiful still. You 
know it, Scott. Have you foimd a woman more beauti- 
ful than I?" 

"No." But he knew in his heart he had foimd one 
harder to win. 

"Do men never love after they have won? Do they 
always turn away from those who trust them ? " 

Scott rose and saimtered about the room. He could 
not sit there and watch the beautiful girl before him un- 


moved, and he had determined on his course, and was not to 
be swerved from it. At last he turned on her cruelly. 

"Marie — what the devil — You know I never can 
marry you and introduce you as my wife in the circle in 
which I move. It 's a moral impossibility — and what 's 
more — " 

"Then keep out of that circle yourself. Stay where you 
belong, if doing an honorable thing throws you outside the 
pale of respectability. You choose the immoral possibility 
to the moral impossibility, do you ? Very weU, I stay here 
— in heU, where you have placed me — but not for long. 
You go your respectable way. Go and let some respectable 
girl promise to love, honor, and obey you. She will never do 
it as honestly as I have done it, for you will carry the lie 
of your life in your soul, and she will find it out. Honor you 
will never have. If there is a God — before Him your soul 
lies deeper in the pit than mine. Here, take your bank 
notes with you, or I will bum them." 

"You may do as you wish. You have the last word. 
Remember the rental of these apartments is only paid until 
the first of January." 

He went out without looking at her again. If he had, he 
knew he would not have left. He had indulged too much 
in these little side sins. He must stop sowing wild oats. 
A man had to settle down and be respectable sometime. 



" And this wind^ that doth sing so in your ears, 
I know is no disease bred in yourself, 
But whispered in by others, who, in swelling 
Your veins with empty hopes of much, yet able 
To perform nothing, are like shallow streams. 
That make themselves so many heavens to sight, 
Since you may see in them the moon and stars, 
The blue space of the air, as far from us. 
To our weak senses, in those shallow streams, 
As if they were as deep as heaven is high ; 
Yet, with your middle finger only sound them. 
And you shall pierce them to the very earth/' 

— Chapman, Byron*s Conspiracy, 

The snow was falling softly, silently, and Boston city 
showed through its whiteness mysterious and faint — a 
dream dty, moonlike in its ghostliness. Scott Stevens 
buttoned his coat about him warmly, and swore imder his 
breath. His feet sank in the white carpet of snow, and left 
dark imprints of muddy slush as he walked. 

"This going is vile," he muttered, and turned to look for 

a cab. "Why, Hallo! Thorn. Thought you were in 

New York. You go saimtering along, gazing about as if 

you liked this sort of thing. Here, Hi !" he called, shaking 

his cane at a cabby just swinging roimd the comer. "Take 

this cab with me. Let's get out of this." He climbed 

quickly in the cab, as it drew up at the curbing, and held 

the door open for Mark to follow. 



"Why, I don't know," said Mark, laughing. He stood 
with coat thrown open and hands in his pockets. " I believe 
I rather like the world in this condition. Come out here 
and look about you before you crawl in there like a snail. 
I '11 invite you to walk with me." He looked up at the 
darkness of the sky, and off over the city, with its million 
lights emphasizing the whiteness of the veil which the 
Almighty was spreading over it. 

"Oh, you artists are a devilishly careless lot. No, it may 
be beautiful overhead, but, as the postman said, *l'm not 
traveling that way,' and it 's death of pneumonia under- 

Mark took hold of something which projected from his 
coat pocket, and felt of it to see if it was all there. Scott 
still held the door of the cab open. " What have you there ? " 
he asked. 

"Paint brushes wrapped in a rag. Taking them home to 

" The deuce you are. I thought your studio was in New 
York now. Come, get in here. Get in before the thing 
fills up with snow. I want to talk with you." Mark took 
another look about him, and then stepped slowly in. Scott 
brushed off the snow which had fallen in on his clothing, 
and directed the cabman to drive to his club. "You may 
like it, but I 'm not partial to snow, myself. I shall leave 
for other parts of the globe as soon as I can make my 
arrangements. Where are you now?" 

"Still in New York. I'm only here finishing up that 
mural work in Mervain Thompson's music room." 

"Oh, you're doing that? I thought you would get it 
when Thompson saw those panels in my yacht. He ad- 


mired them tremendously.- I put in a good word for you — 
ought to bring you quite a siun. Thompson has the money, 
you know." 

" It 's not so great. I was glad to do it for other consid- 

" Of course. Splendid advertisement, great piece like that, 
and where the right people see it. Now those panels have 
been constantly admired." 

Mark smiled. He refrained from mentioning that he had 
been at work on designs for that music room before Stevens 
ever thought of panels for his yacht. He took the patroniz- 
ing with stoical philosophy, as one of the disagreeable ad- 
juncts of his profession — an inevitable fact where such 
men as Stevens were concerned, and the man before him 
contentedly talked on. 

"Yes, they have made quite a sensation. You were 
particularly happy in the one from Miss Parsons. It 's by 
far the finest of the three." 

"Think so? I prefer the one Mrs. Renolds posed for, 

"That's just it. I've always heard artists themselves 
were the poorest judges of their own work, and this proves 
it. Why, either of the others are better than that. I defy 
any one who did not know Mrs. Renolds posed for it to see 
a trace of her, and she 's a remarkably beautiful woman, 

"Oh, well — I thought myself entitled to the artist's 
privilege of idealizing." 

"I've noticed this, too. An artist is never content to 
take a beautiful thing exactly as he finds it. He 's Blways 
trying to idealize. Oh, I 'm not criticizing, you xmderstand. 


I 'm satisfied. Beautiful work, every one of them. Every 
one says so. You know, Thorn, it came over me in a flash 
as I stood before Miss Parsons' picture to-day, what a howl- 
ing success you would be if you only had such a model — 
the monopoly I mean — of such a model, one from whom 
you could create a type. I believe the right sort of a model 
is as essential to the success of an artist as genius." 

"A good model is certainly a great help. They 're hard 
to get, professionally, you know. I Ve never yet seen one 
from whom I would be willing to create a type, as you call 
it. Perhaps I 'm not idealist enough for that — " 

"Oh, idealist go hang! That's your hobby. I believe 
it 's what holds you back. The public don't care for idealism. 
You must make a success of yourself first, then you can do 
what you please with the public. Train them to appreciate 
idealism. They don't care a cent about it now — it 's all 
whim with the public. There are only a few of us who have the 
courage of our convictions — who dare take you on faith." 

" Most kind of you, I 'm sure. I think I must leave you 
at this comer. I go to my aunt's." 

"No, no. Let me take. you to the door. This is no night 
to be on foot." 

"About that question of the model, I may need one. 
Good models are scarce — " 

"I know just the one for you — a little English girl. I 
don't know that she has ever done anything of the kind, but 
she might be induced to. She 's the most perfect thing your 
eyes ever rested on, and the beauty of it is she 's unpro- 
fessional — unspoiled. If you could get her, you would n't 
have to idealize. She 's ready made to your hand. She 's 
everything — plastic — subtle — *" 


"How did you happen to find her?" 

"Oh, I saw her first in England — little seaport town 
where I happened to touch. I stayed there some time and 
saw considerable of her, and now she 's in this coxmtry. I Ve 
just been in to caU on her." He took a card from his pocket 
and scratched on the back her name and address. "You 'U 
find her there, chaperoned by the woman from whom she 
has her apartments. She 's a lonely little thing — been un- 
fortunate, I guess, but mighty independent. You 'U have 
to find out a way to get at her. Better not let her know I 
suggested this; she 'd never do it in the world — too proud. 
She 's of good family, you know — not one of your common 
sort, by any means. I Ve an idea you 'd be doing her a 
service, and she 's one you could get a monopoly on." 

Mark took the card in an absent-minded way, and thrust 
it in his pocket. " Thank you, thank you. I '11 think 
about it." He peered out into the night. "I'm here, I 
think. Yes." He called to the cabman, and they stopped. 

•'Good night," said Scott, "I'm glad we met." 

" Thanks — so am I." 

" You take my suggestion about that model — you won't 
regret it." 

"Oh, yes. Well, I '11 think about it. Thank you. Good 

Mark strolled ojBF through the obscurity and slowly 
mounted the steps of a dignified Beacon Street home. Mrs. 
Parsons would have foimd it hard to forgive him had he 
made any hired lodging his headquarters while she was in 
Boston. As he stood in the vestibule, shaking the snow 
from his greatcoat, she came out to meet him. 

"Why, Mark 1 How late you have worked ! We waited 


supper for you, and then Louise had a meeting she thought 
she must attend, and so we gave you up." 

Mark kissed her. "You must never wait for me, Aunt 
Kate, I'm such an uncerta'n quantity." 

"I wouldn't, if I thought you would ever think of any- 
thing to eat if left to yourself — what on earth you do in 
New York, with no one to think for you, I can't imagine. 
Have you had any dinner ? " 

"Why, come to think of it, I don't believe I have — but 
you must n't let me make trouble. I was just going to a 
restaurant when Scott Stevens picked me up, and brought 
me here. Can't I go out and wait on mjrself ? " 

"No, Mark. I told Stokes to keep something hot, and it 
will be on the table in a moment." 

''That 's the way you spoil me. If you 'd let me go hungry, 
or make me help myself, don't you see — Where 's Louise, 
did you say?" 

"Oh, she's become a kind of an Oriental nowadays. I 
don't know whether she 's Hindoo or Mahomedan, but she 
has gone to one of those meetings where they talk all kinds of 
pagan nonsense. The coup6 has gone for her, so I think 
she '11 soon return. She has given up eating meat now, and 
lives mostly on rice and tabasco sauce, and dates and nuts.'* 

Mrs. Parsons looked anxious and worried. As she talked, 
she preceded Mark into the dining room, and sat with him 
while he ate. * ' I don't know whatever is to become of Louise. 
She has now one of the strangest notions in her head." 

"Oh, they '11 all pass, Aimty; you know they always do." 

" I don't know. She says she does n't believe in marriage. 
I do wish, Mark, that you would just bring her to the point 
and marry her and done with it." 


"I will, Aunt. I Ve gotten my aflFairs at last so I know 
what I 'm doing — suppose I send for a minister or a magis- 
trate and marry her as soon as she comes in." 

"Oh, Mark! Do talk sense." 

"That 's very good sense. I Ve got to marry her as soon 
as I have brought her to the point, as you say, or she will not 
be there when I come again." 

"I know, but I think, Mark, if you really cared — or I 
mean appeared to care a little more — she would — How 
long is it since you were here last ? Three weeks ? — and 
now — I don't want to appear to criticize you, Mark, but 
you see how careless you seem. You send word you will 
dine with us this evening, and we wait, until at last she has 
to go; then you come saimtering in as if you had never 
thought of her." 

"You're right, by Jove! I became engrossed in that 
house, and before I knew it, the workmen were all gone, and 
there I was alone in the dark, and as cold as Greenland. 
It 's going to be a fine thing, though, Aimt Kate. You and 
Louise must come and see it to-morrow. I got a chance last 
summer at a splendid woman's head for my central figure 
in the TamihaLr group, Elizabeth - and by all the sTts 
— her name is Elizabeth, too. I had forgotten that." 

"Was it that charming Uttle unfinished thing in a spatter 
of golden light to which Louise took such a fancy ? I would 
hardly think that face a good type for Elizabeth." 

"That ? Oh, no. Indeed, no. As different as — " Mark 
stopped talking, and stared straight before him a moment. 
Then he rose, and placing his arm about his aimt, led her 
into the library, and sat beside her, gazing into the open fire. 
The flames leaped and danced. He leaned forward and 


stirred tiie lumps of coal, but what he really saw was Joyful 
Heatherby, moving among tall forest trees, now in shade 
and now in shifting simlight, with the azure and gold and 
green scarf fluttering about her. 

"Don't you think — Mark — " 

"Yes, Aimt." He came back to his present with a start. 
"Yes, you are imdeniably right. Yet it is really not so much 
indifference as it seems. You remember what she said to 
me last spring at the exhibition ? She has said it many times 
since. I must succeed, she will never have me else, and 
I don't know why she should. No man who is not a success 
wishes to offer himself to a woman, and success means in my 
case devotion to my art ; and inversely that means, in my 
case, devotion to Louise." The outer door opened, and a 
light step was heard in the hall. 

"There she is, Mark." His aimt rose and, bending, 
kissed him on his brow. "I 'm going to leave you. Re- 
member, dear, I think you have met with quite success 
enough to satisfy any girl." 

" To satisfy you. Aunt." She smiled back at him, and 
glided noiselessly away with her finger on her lips. 

"Mamma Kate." The heavy hangings were pushed 
open behind him, and Louise stood there, queenly beautiful. 
She still wore her hat and cloak. " Why, Mark ! Is it you ? 
I thought I heard voices. Where is Mamma Kate?" 

"She was here, but she is gone." He came toward her, 
his face suddenly radiant, his hands extended. 

"We gave you up, Mark, and — " 

He caught her in his arms and swung her into the room. 
"You did ? Well, I have n't given you up. Kiss me, Louise, 
kiss me." 


She lifted her face and gave hun a calm little kiss. ^' There, 
then, Mark, let go of me." 

He held her off at arm's length. 'Xool and calm, and 
beautiful as a dream. You make me think of an Arctic 
night, and the aurora borealis. You are never at fault in 
your dress, whatever you may be in your kissing. Pale 
blue cloth and heaps of white fur — pale blue hat and a 
white plume and a white dove, by Jove ! Pale gold hair, 
like gold on a sky of blue, and eyes blue as the heavens. 
Mighty lovely, but rather cold, Louise." 

She smiled and began to imfasten her cloak. "Now 
you have taken my inventory, you may help me off with 
my things. Thanks. Lay them out in the hall, they are 
full of the cold." She sank in the large chair, and held out 
her hands to the fire. "I believe I will have some wine, 
Mark. Ring for Stokes, will you ? I feel quite chilled." 

Mark fetched the wine himself, and then sat opposite 
her, watching her while she sipped it. 

"Have a glass yourself, Mark. It will be more sociable." 

"Thank you, I am warm enough. I am ardent." He 
drew nearer her, and made her look in his eyes. 

" What is it, Mark ? Do take some wine." She poured 
him a glass and held it out. "I '11 drink your health." 

He took it slowly. He felt no need of the wine. His 
artist's sense was steeped in her beauty. "Your loveliness 
is my wine, Louise." 

She looked at him with slightly lifted brows. "It isn't 
yoiu: way to say such things, you knpw, Mark, and you say 
them as coolly as if I were done on canvas, instead of being 
flesh and blood." 

He laughed. "Here's to your- health, your flesh-and' 


blood self, Louise." He lifted his glass on high, and then 
drained it. " You kissed me as if you were done on canvas." 

She too laughed, and the pale roses in her cheeks glowed 
with a deeper shade. Mark began to analyze his own 
sensations. What was it that filled his being as he gazed 
on her ? Was it love in his heart, or merely the intoxication 
of delight in her beauty ? Did she fill his soul or his senses ? 

"I have been thinking a great deal lately, Mark, and — " 

"Have you ? So have I, and — " 

"And a great deal of new light has come to me. I really 
ought to tell you — " 

"Don't — just yet. I am seized with a desire to do the 
talking myself, and — I'm afraid you are trying to say 
something I don't wish to hear." 

She looked calmly and steadily in his eyes. "Ah, but 
the truth, Mark, don't you care for the truth — the vast, 
mysterious, far-reaching, imfathomable truth?" 

"No, not for the imfathomable truth, I don't care much 
for that ; but a little everyday, and very fathomable truth 
I do care extremely about. Louise, I 'm ready for that trip 
to the Orient. When I have finished this piece for Mervain 
Thompson I '11 take you wherever you wish to go — Greece, 
Arabia, Syria — I will go with you to search for your im- 
fathomable truth, if you desire, in the land of Mahomet, 
and if you really like their ways better than ours, I will keep 
you for chief wife, and start a small harem of additional 
wives over there, as many as you like, only so you keep 
it within my still not overlarge bank accoimt." 

"Hush, Mark. I'm deadly in earnest. I have learned 
that all material things are but varied manifestations of 
spirit, and — " 


" I know, and you won't eat meat, for fear of eating your 
great-grandparents, or some one equally dear to you — 
but in that case is n't it almost as bad to have them killed 
for your adornment ? Who was the dove you had on your 
hat, and all those white foxes — who were the skins you have 
on your coat ? Come, Louise, drop all this and marry me." 

**Mark, you are flippant. Now listen seriously. We 
can't marry, Mark, not in the material and worldly sense. 
T can't. I don't believe in marriage. It is a cheap and 
vulgar concession to mortal and finite modes of existence — 
a throwing away of the spirit to selfish, material, and purely 
mundane uses. Think, Mark. The marriage service gives 
us solely and materially to each other. I would no longer 
be a spirit, free, unhampered, unboimd by all fleshly ties. 
Whereas now I am part of the infinite soul — then I 
would be monopolized, owned, and controlled by the finite 

Mark leaned back and gave a low whistle. She turned 
her profile toward him, and even in his mystification and 
perturbation he studied her by line and color. At last he 
said, "Louise, you 're — you 're — too fine — too exquisite 
a being to be turned wholly over to infinity, and be lost to me. 
We mortals need such beings. Now look at this matter 
by the sane light of common sense." 

"Oh, Mark!" She made a gesture of despair. "You 
don't understand. You never will." 

"Not but what I can. What's the matter with my 
belonging to infinity, too, and our getting married on that 

" That 's just it. If we were both on that plane, we would 
never need to marry. Our spirits would be forever in com- 


munion. The laws which bind the great hordes of human 
beings, who have not entered into the mysteries, would not 
bind us. We would be superior to them." She looked at 
him without seeing him, and spoke with an exalted air of 
abstraction. **You spoke about Mahomedanism and a 
harem. Mark, that is all you see in it — the vulgar show 
of things. The truth that I have entered goes far back of 
all such modem forms of expression. It is the great central 
Truth that guides ourselves, like the heavenly bodies, in our 
orbits, that I seek. The formative, indwelling Truth, that 
creates and destroys. The sages among the Hindoos and 
Egyptians understood it, and now in these modem days 
it is again being revealed to hxunanity — to those who care 
to search for it. Mark, souls who imderstand do not need 
to marry, they are already married. Two souls who come 
in the same orbit, understanding all Truth, will belong to 
each other — will meet inevitably — are in the highest 
sense married in that preordained soul union, without any 
intervention of priestcraft or materially directed laws. 
Man may not intervene here." 

Mark rose and walked about the room a moment, then 
he came back and stood looking down at her. "Very well, 
Louise," he said quietly. "I take you at your word. Our 
souls have met and agreed together long ago to be in — 
ahem — accofd — the same orbit, you know; now we'll 
just understand, both of us, that without the intervention 
of priestcraft, or any mimdane law, we are married, and — " 

She awoke suddenly from her trance. "Mark, you know 
very well we could n't do that." 

"You said a moment ago that you were in deadly earnest. 
What did you mean ? If you are, you should be willing to 


stand by the legitimate and only result of your cult. I 
simply take you at your word. We are married, and we go 
together on a still hunt for Truth. There are places where 
I can penetrate, where you, being a woman, and therefore 
unclean and despised among them, cannot. I can search out 
Truth for you and bring it to you. I think I shall find my- 
self proof against their fundamental doctrine that man is 
defiled by the touch of woman, so that he has to imdergo 
inconceivable torture as purification from such contact — 
at least I can as far as you are concerned ; and if they take 
me into their inner mystery of mysteries, I will return and 
bring you their Truth — which is all you seem to care for 

"Mark, you are trying to be sarcastic." 

"Not at all. I am taking a sane, practical view of your 
position. We were to be married — if I remember rightly 
— as soon as I reached a certain point of success, and take 
a trip to the Orient — a vague term which may mean any 
point you please east of here, or southeast of Europe. 
Now I am ready, but you tell me you no longer believe in 
marriage. Very well, I take you without — " 

"But, Mark, you know that is impossible." 

"Indeed, no. I am ready to go the whole thing. Many 
people do, but not for quite such occult reasons — possibly 
the final result in our case would be about the, same, but we 
are not looking at results — that is — not just now. I am 
looking at you — and — " 

"Mark!" Louise rose majestically. "You know well 
that your talk is all nonsense and — " 

"Not as far as I am concerned. Logical deduction from 

— ^1 


"And I will not sit here and listen. Good night." 

"Louise." He caught her hand and drew her toward 
him. "Come into my arms and tell me you love me. 
We '11 call the whole thing nonsense and begin again." 

A moment she was swayed by his magnetic will. Her 
eyes filled with tears, but she held herself away from him. 
"You master me by force, Mark, and make me lose the calm 
I should maintain, but I have heard that to-night which 
makes me know that I must not 3deld." 

"Come," he said impellingly. 

"I can't, Mark," she said. "Marriage is for the vulgar 
who know not the Truth. For those who see light it is sin." 

"Damn ! " he muttered between his teeth. "Louise, stop 
that nonsense." He held out his arms to her. "Come — 
come to me." 

"Besides, Mark, you have not yet succeeded — not as I 
mean you to succeed. You have gained a certain sum of 
money, enough to take us on our trip, but after that is gone, 
then what ? My artist must be a god among artists. You 
know I have perfect faith in you, Mark ; but you have n't 
done it. You have it in you to succeed, and until then I 
would only be a drag on you — with my tastes." 

He took one swift stride toward her and caught her to him, 
then pushed her almost roughly away. "Gk>od night — 
and good-bye. I shall be gone before you are up in the 

"Mark, if you only could understand," she said pleadingly. 
"Good night." 



That man who trusts himself, 

Who, from the wide world's wide 

Indifference and boasting, turns aside — 

Holds to a worthy purpose with a pride 

Bom of a strong, fierce aspiration, bold 

In his own might and in his spirit's right : 

He draws a shaft from God, and in his hold 

Gathers the reins that guide men's destinies : 

That man hath greatness — on a height 

He stands, above the plain, and so much nearer God. 

Mark was up and away in the cold winter dawn of the 
following day, leaving a note to be handed to his aunt at 
breakfast, begging her forgiveness for his abrupt departure. 

He sought out a restaurant, where he hastily swallowed a 
cup of coflfee and devoured a crusty roll, and then repaired 
to his work in the Mervain Thompson music room. The 
house was in the hands of the decorators, and the rooms were 
cold, with a deadly chill, for the janitor had overslept. 
The workmen were just filing in and were donning their 
smeared blouses. 

Mark was too depressed to trust himself before his own 

walls. He might do something he would afterwards regret. 

There were times when, possessed by these morbid thoughts, 

everything appeared to him worthless and distorted. He 

had been known to destroy his best work, over which he 

had labored for weeks, in such a moment. Now as he wan- 



dered from room to room, viewing the work going on around 
him, critically, with drawn and gloomy brow, the con- 
tractor approached' him. 

"Have you seen the library ? " he asked. " We are doing 
it in red and gold. Thompson's idea." 

Mark turned and followed him silently into the library, 
which was nearly finished. "Ah, very good," he said, 
doubtfully. "What is he going to do with the wall spaces 
over the shelves?" 

"Oh, they '11 be filled with pictures, old copper plates and 
the like, and on the top there will be bric-a-brac, of course — 
busts and bronzes." 

"Yes, yes. Quite the thing." Mark turned and saun- 
tered out, with his hands in his coat pockets, from which 
still protruded his bundle of rag-enwrapped paint brushes. 

"That 's a fine piece of work you have done in the music 
room," the contractor called after him. 

"Thank you. Can't say — I have n't seen it this morn- 

"Must have had a bad night," said the contractor, laugh- 
ingly, to one of the painters. 

"Like as not. He was still in there when we left — too 
dark to see — may have been there all night, for all we know." 

However, the kindly word of the contractor helped to 
break the spell of bitterness that submerged him, and he 
returned to his work in a fairly reasonable frame of mind. 
He climbed the scaffolding and seated himself before the 
figure of Elizabeth awaiting the return of the pilgrims. 
There he sat on the rough plank, gazing at his walls and 
kicking his heels together ; gazing, but not seeing. Instead 
of the brown-coated pilgrims, their faces lighted by the torch 


glare, winding in solemn procession, in the mirk of evening, 
down the rough mountain road, he saw a somber stretch 
of woods curving to the sea ; and instead of a rugged castle 
towering dark against an evening sky, he saw a yellow cottage 
with green blinds, nestled imder giant silver-leaf poplars 
and swaying locust trees that stood out dark in a golden 
light. And instead of Elizabeth standing luminously white, 
shading her taper and waiting with great expectant eyes, he 
saw a small maid enveloped in iridescent, mistlike draperies, 
with a wonderful mass of shining hair tossed by the wind. 

"Hello ! Come down from that scaffolding before you 
touch my walls again, " shouted a jovial voice below him. 
It was Mervain Thompson himself, a genial, small man with 
a large head. 

Mark swung himself over and, hanging by his hands, 
dropped to the floor below. The sad lines were chased 
from his face by his characteristic smile as he shook the 
proprietor's hand. "You like it?" he asked. 

" I like it so well that I am going to have that scaffolding 
down before you have a chance to spoil it. I know you. You 
are one of the kind that are never satisfied. You don't know 
your best work. You get a thing right, and then you keep 
tinkering at it until you ruin it. Stevens was telling me — " 

"Yes, I know — said I spoiled one of his panels." 

"Oh, not spoiled exactly — said you came near doing 
so, fooling with it." 

"Ah, yes. He cautioned you about this, no doubt." 
Mark laughed immoderately. 

"Have you seen my library ? " 

"I looked in there just now." 

"Do you like it?" 



"Yes, yes. Very well." 

" I want one room in the house purely typical. I want 
only American art, but I want it art, you understand, that 
will be recognized as such by those who know the best. I 
don't care for a renaissance treatment — it may be classic 
— but — haven't we in America an art of our own?" 

"Hardly — yet. True art is an intrinsic thing. It has 
no nationality, any more than truth has. Art should stand 
alone — and yet — it is a hobby of mine that we should 
copy less, ape foreign conceptions less, and develop here an 
art as purely true as the world knows. We have done so in 
literature — why may we not in painting and building ? " 

The two men paced in silence for a few moments, and 
Thompson led the way back to the red and gold library. 

"What shall I do with these walls?" 

"What do you wish to do with them ? You should have 
some spaces left for various works of art." 

"That falls in with my thought, and still, I would like to 
have something quite our own here. I want you to make me 
a painting — a large one, filling this whole space — not merely 
a wall decoration, you imderstand. Take any subject you 
please, only let it belong to us." 

Mark's face radiated its pleasure. "I see. If you give 
me this to do, it will be the realization of one of the aspira- 
tions of my life. It wiU make definite that which has been 
heretofore only a dream of mine, that I may help, may 
possibly even have a leading part in bringing about a chiUad 
of art here in America." 

Mervain Thompson stood with feet planted a little apart, 
looking up in Mark's face. "A what ? " he said, lifting his 


"The Greeks had theirs, the Romans theirs — I love 
broad fields to work in. The very barrenness and inunen- 
sity of America is inspiring. Ours is yet to come — it is 
coming. May it last forever!" 

"My notion of your chiliad business is very vague, but 
go ahead. What I want is an artistic effect here." 

Mark looked slowly about the room. " A gathering of 
the perfections of all periods — a millenniimi of art in Amer- 
ica. We have here the gathering together of all peoples 
on earth. Each element has a right to the best of its 
own art. This is what America means to me as an art field, 
to develop in our midst, from the best of past ages and 
dying nations, a new, a grand renaissance. Oh, stupen- 
dous ! To incorporate our own conceptions — to create — 
to bring the best, the purest art rajrs of all the world, of all 
time, here to a focus in a brilliant, pure, white light of abso- 
lute, creative art. Majestic ! so that it will rise to the 
height of being a little lower than the works of the Almighty, 
even as man was 'created a little lower than the angels.' " 

Mervain Thompson walked about a moment, then stood 
with his back to Mark, looking down the street. "Very 
weU," he said at last, "to come down to the practical 
question of the moment — what will you do to begin 

"I will begin with the supreme moment of a human soul. 
I will paint the trial scene in the 'Scarlet Letter.'" 

"That's good — American, too." 

"Purely, typically so." 

Thompson held out his hand. "Settled," he said. 
"Take your own time to it, but, you imderstand, strike 
while your conception is hot." 


"Indeed, yes, yes. You are undoubtedly right." Mark 
walked slowly about the room, feeling of the bundle of 
brushes in his pocket. He was already making out his 
color scheme. " Grood-bye," he said, at last, and abruptly 
walked out of the house and down the street, without going 
again to his beloved music room. 

That room closed a period of his past. He had hoped to 
win Louise with it. Now it was done and she had never 
seen it — she who had inspired it. Hereafter he would 
create for humanity. One hope was gone — he would 
rise to another. Yet he moved heavily and sadly. With- 
out the love of a woman to strengthen his soul, where was 
he ? And still, had he ever had that love — that supreme 
love, or had he only dreamed he had it and been satisfied 
with his dream? Perhaps — sometime, the real thing 
might come to him, and then — then he would be ready. 
How he would create for the sake of a pure art in his own 
coimtry — for the sake of a glorious conception. He would 
lock forever the door of that empty chamber of his heart, 
and work, work and forget that his hope had ever been. 

He entered a book shop and purchased a small copy of 
"The Scarlet Letter," and then betook himself to the inner 
room of a quiet little restaurant, and ordered wine and beef- 
steak. It was already noon, and he was suffering the 
exhaustion engendered by excess of emotion and the lack 
of food; for the day before he had painted in delighted 
anticipation, forgetting to eat, and since then he had neither 
slept nor eaten enough to keep a normal balance between 
body and spirit. Now he put the past resolutely away. 
He filled his pipe, and leaning back against the wall behind 
him, began reading his book. 



" Over the ball of it, 

Peering and prying, 
How I see all of it, 

Life there, out lying I 
Roughness and smoothness, 

Shine and defilement, 
Grace and unoouthness, 

One reconcilement." 

—Robert Browning, Pisgak SigHs. 

It was three in the afternoon. Marie Vaile, clad in a 
rose and white neglig6e was sipping coffee and listening to 
Jo)rful's guitar. Her face was pale, and her eyes were 
heavy and sad, but unnaturally lustrous. When Joyful 
entered her room that morning she foimd her still dressed 
as she had been the evening before, lying across her bed with 
face red and swollen, breathing heavily. 

Jo)rful thought her very ill, perhaps dying, and filled 
with fear and awe, she bent over her and touched her hair 
with trembling fingers, and kissed her fevered cheek, trying 
to arouse her. She hoped to avoid calling Madame La 
Grande, dreading the sight of her impassive face. 

"Oh, what can I do, what can I do !" she cried, seating 
herself on the side of the bed, and wringing her hands. 
"Marie, beautiful Marie, look at me, speak to me! Are 
you iU?" 



She moved about the room with Umbs that ached ^nd 
trembled from the horror that filled her. Mechamcally she 
took note of everythmg. A cupboard stood half open, and 
she looked in on what appeared to be a miniature phar<- 
macy, so filled was it with lotions and phials. She picked 
up the check Scott Stevens had laid on the table the even- 
ing before, and took cognizance of his signature, without 
realizing what she was doing. In her frightened and 
unnaturally acute consciousness everything in the room, 
to the smallest detail, seemed to bum itself into her brain 
as if branded there with irons. 

She returned to the bed and knelt sobbing at the side, 
taking Marie's heavy head on her bosom and stroking her 
face and neck with gentle touch. "Oh, Marie, what is it? 
Look at me, Marie — open your eyes, beautiful Marie ! " 

And Marie awoke. Slowly the heavy eyelids lifted, but 
she lay still, and Joyivl continued her tender caressing 
touch, begging her to tell her what she could do for her. 
There was a rap at the door, and as no response was made, 
Madame La Grande opened it and thrust her head in, then 
entered and stood a moment in silent stoicism, looking down 
on them. 

Jo)rful raised imploring, tearful eyes to her face, but said 
nothing, and the woman looked about the disordered room. 
Then she shut the cupboard, and turned the key in the lock. 

"You need n't trouble yourself about her," she said 
quietly. "She 's had too much. She 'U come aroimd soon. 
She 's always doing it lately, and she 's losing her good looks 
very rapidly. She '11 have nothing to live on then, if she 
does n't look out." 

Her eyes roved constantly about the room as if taking an 


inventory of its contents. Suddenly they seemed to grow 
smaller, gleaming like points of light. They had rested on 
the bank check. She turned her back on it, however, and 
looked again at Marie, who had raised her head and was 
gazing at her. 

"Are you feeling better ? I '11 send you up some coflfee." 
The woman spoke in a low voice, and took a step nearer the 
bed, when Marie suddenly flimg out her arms to ward her 

"Go back, go back," she shrieked. "Go back to your 
own vermin. You have n't got your hands on me yet, you 
she-devil." She struggled to her feet and, tottering for- 
ward, struck violently at the woman, screaming impreca- 
tions like one possessed of a demon. "Curse you! You 
have n't got your hands on me yet. You think you '11 save 
my face to fill your purse ? Curse you to hell ! " 

Jo)rful shrank back, cowering in a comer, and the woman 
went softly out, shutting the door upon the two. She had 
seen the bank check, and that it was for five figures, not for 
three, nor four; also she had seen the signature. "Little 
fool," she muttered, as she walked away. 

Marie threw herself again on the bed and lay there prone, 
clutching the pillows, shakmg and sobbing, and hiding her 
face. Then Jo)rf ul drew near and knel t as before, and held 
her head on her breast. Marie tried to push her away, 
but her strength was gone. Joyivl felt suddenly — as she 
saw the other's weakness — her own heart grow strong 
within her. She soothed and petted Marie as if she were 
a child, and held her close in her arms. 

"Don't, don't, Marie. I love you. What is it? What 
have you done?" 



You mustn't touch me, child. I can't let you touch 
me — " yet she climg to Joyful even as she spoke. "I 
am hideous ! horrible ! You must go away from here and 
leave me to die. I must die — I will not let her get her 
talons on me. I will die," she cried, shivering, moaning, 
and weeping. 

"No, you are not to die. I am here with you, Marie." 

The girl started up and pushed Joyful from her. She 
went to the cupboard and poured herself something in a 
tiny glass and drank it off ; then she sat in the large chair 
and leaning back, closed her eyes. "I seem to smell 
tuberoses," she said. 

Joyful looked about. "There are none here," she said. 

" Yes, but there was one here last evening. It is that I 

Joyful thought her mind wandering. Presently she 
opened her eyes and gazed at Joyful. She had grown 
suddenly sane and quiet. "Yes, you are here, as you said, ' 
poor little thing. That is the pity of it. I can't die yet — 
I must get you away from here first, or else — Come here, 
little pink, wild rose, sit by me. Snuggle up, so." 

"Or else what, Marie?" 

The slender, beautiful arms closed aroimd the girl as 
they had the evening before, and Joyful felt abashed at 
their touch. "Or else I must kill you first and then die." 

"Marie, Marie, don't talk like that. It is terrible — 
even if you don't mean it." 

" Child, I do. When you came in last night, it seemed as 
if I could devour you, I was so glad just to touch you. I 
knew what you were — I knew, darling — now, listen. I 
would rather hold you in my arms dead, than see you i» 


that woman's power; and I swear to you — I swear to 
God, I will, if I can't get you away." 

"But why need you say such things ? I can go away, if 
I ought not to stay here. You have n't told me yet what 
the matter is with this place, and everything seems very 

But to this remark Marie gave no heed. She was staring 
straight before her, planning, scheming. 

Jo3rful rose and touched the bell as she had seen Marie 
do the evening before. "I have rung for that boy in the 
green suit to come and bring your breakfast. You have n't 
eaten anything, and neither have I. When you have eaten, 
you will feel better and won't talk about dying. Why 
can't we go away together ? I have a little money, and I 
can soon find something to do. I foimd this place right 
away." She rose and entered her own room as she spoke, 
and Marie looked after her with a bitter smile. 

"Certainly," she said, imder her breath, "this is a place 
that is open to a woman when nothing else is." Then she 
bathed her face, and Joyful helped her don the beautiful 
'rose-coloi:ed gown, heavy with lace, and let down her rich, 
shining hair and brushed it. When breakfast was brought 
them Marie ate little, but took her cofifee, and the day 
slipped away. Languid and pale, she lay back among 
her pillows, while Jojrful read to her from a volume of 
Browning's poems, richly bound in red and gold, which she 
foimd on Marie's table. A maid came and set the room to 
rights, and Marie sent for wine, but drank of it sparingly. 
She said her head ached still, and she must have it. Joyful 
watched her sadly. 

"I wish I could do something to make you happy, 


Marie," she said, at last. "Would you like me to bring 
my guitar and sing to you?" 

"Oh, yes. Sing, sing! I didn't know you could sing. 
To-morrow I shall be better, and we will go somewhere 
together, you and I; we will be happy somewhere, but 
Madame La Grande must get no hint of it." She took the 
bank check and put it carefully away. "I was going to 
destroy this, but now, for your sake I will not. My sin 
may save you, little pink rose." 

Joyful went away, wondering at the things she said, and 
returned with her guitar, in its quaint old case. Then she 
sang for Marie the beautiful songs of Schubert Elizabeth 
had taught her. Thus they were sitting, when a card was 
brought to Marie. She looked at it closely, turning it over 
and over. "New York!" she murmured. "Who can it 
be?" while Joyful sang on, and some one standing wait- 
ing in the hall below heard the voice faintly and, closing 
his eyes a moment, saw with inner vision green woods and 
a cottage and blue sea beyond. 

Marie thrust the card in her dress. "I must go down," 
she said. "Quick; help me to get into something else." 
Then Joyful helped her, and Marie, quite restored and 
beautiful to look upon, left her. "Turn the key in the lock 
and stay here until I return, dear child. If she comes, don't 
let her in, and don't even speak. I '11 be back immediately." 

Wondering, and feeling as if she were imprisoned, Joyful 
obeyed her. She sat for a while pondering, with her head 
bowed in her hands. Where was she ? Why must she keep 
silent ? Ah ! there was something quite wrong here, lovely 
as everything seemed to be. She would go away and 
find some other place to teach. She heard a knocking at 


the door of her own room. That must be Madame La 
Grande. Her heart stood still. Should she go in there 
and open the door ? Should she obey Marie, or not ? Only 
a moment she hesitated, then she locked the door between 
the two rooms, and remained where she was, silent and pale. 
But why should she fear? she asked herself. What had 
she done that was wrong, or Madame La Grande, either ? 
Surely the woman had been kind. Then Joyful heard her 
enter the room and move softly about, but she did not stir. 
She felt a tremor of intense dislike creep over her, and 
sank down in the great chair, as if she would hide herself; 
yet she was ashamed of her fear. 

Then the woman went away, and Jo)H[ul heard her low 
voice presently in conversation with Marie. With a sigh 
of relief she returned to the copy of Browning, and was 
soon lost in the poem of "Saul," oblivious of the fact that 
in the hall outside the door her fate was being fought for 
and decided. 

"I tell you it is impossible. You are very clever, but you 
can never change her; you can only kill her." 

"Hush," said Madame, "she will hear you. You need 
not be so excited. She must live, and I give her the chance. 
Let me in. You have no right to her." 

Suddenly Marie became outwardly more calm. Her 
eyes blazed, but she laughed and lifted her shoulders. 
"Very well, I must live too, and you would better believe 
me ; I know I can do in this case what you cannot. Listen. 
To-morrow I will take her out and buy her lovely things — 
I have the check here, you need n't be afraid — and I will 
make her eyes shine — you will see. I will have her com- 
pletely under my control in two weeks, and until I do you 


will be able to do nothing with her. I know the type 
better than you do." 

Madame's eyes drew together in two dark points. "I 
have use for her and you have not. Let me pass." 

"Have n't I a use for her ? You will see. I '11 make a 
bargain with you. In two weeks' time I agree to cure her 
of all whims and turn her over to you an ideal little devil. 
If I can't do this, I will put a check for one thousand dollars 
in your hands. If I can do it, you must give me that amount. 
I need the money and I can earn it, but you ^ you could 
no more deal with her than you could get into heaven. 
She 's afraid of you now. I can see it." 

"You put your price too high. We'll say half that 
amount for my part ; for yours, let it stand, a check for a 
thousand, if you fail me. I have the first right. I foimd 
her." She turned away. 

"Wait," cried Marie. "You must not speak to her, nor 
have an)rthing to do with her, nor allow any one else to 
meddle with her during that time. Remember, you 
forfeit the whole, if you interfere. Is it a bargain ?" 

"Have it your own way." 

"I say, is it a bargain?" 

"Yes, but there is to be no play about it." 

"Then don't let me see you in this upper hall near my 
door again — or — " Marie stepped forward and hissed 
something in Madame La Grande's ear, and the woman 
turned away. 

"I know what I 'm talking about. Nan told me enough 
to put me on your track. You want this one to fill that 
girl's place, and — " But Madame La Grande continued 
her quiet way without a backward glance, and Marie stood 


alone, gazing after her with flashing eyes. A smile of con- 
tempt disfigured her beautiful face. "Yes, you '11 have her, 
will you ?" she whispered, and flew back to her own apart- 
ment. "Let me in, let me in, little pink rose; it is Marie." 
And Joyful awoke from her dream of the beautiful yoimg 
David and the crazed old king, and imlocked the door with 
shaking fingers. 

"You are trembling, little one," said Marie, tenderly. 
She caught her and whirled her about the room joyously. 
"Something is going to happen, something good. Listen." 
She wrapped her arms about her and whispered in her ear. 
"We are going away from here to live together in some 
sweet, quiet place. We are going to be happy together. 
Hush, don't speak. We must say nothing — nothing, 
dear, or she will hear of it and devise some way of keeping 
us. I know her, you see, sweetest. Sit down here and I '11 
tell you all about it. She never meant you to teach French 
here at all. She sees that you can be made very beautiful, 
child — and — she — wants you for an attraction." 

"An attraction for what?" Joyful raised her head and 
looked searchingly in Marie's eyes, and Marie turned her 
head away. • 

"Never mind now, little pink rose. Just trust me, will 
you ? Some day I can explain to you all about it, but now 
we have n't time. There are things to be done, and they 
must be done immediately. You must quietly pack all your 
clothing. Don't let any one enter your room. We'll 
cram the keyhole full of paper so she can't get in with her 
pass key, and we will go out through my suite. Then 
to-morrow, to-morrow, dear. I told her I would take you 
out and buy you beautiful clothes and jewels to make you 


lovely for — for her — to — But I lied to her. We will 
do no such thing. I lied. She was to have paid me for 
doing this thing for her, but I lied to her bravely. Yes, I 
did, I did!" Marie was growing rapidly more excited, 
and Joyful touched her cheek with gentle, caressing hand. 

"Don't, Marie, don't! It breaks my heart, Marie. 
Something makes me feel that there is some horrible thing 
the matter here, some horrible thing. Oh, Marie, Marie !" 
She broke down in a passion of weeping and slid to her 
knees as she used to kneel at her mother's side. "Marie, 
let us pray to God about it." 

Marie put her hand to her throat as if she were choking. 
She grew suddenly cold, and shivered as with an ague. 
"I can't, I can't," she cried. "There is no God to hear me. 
Get up quick. We must work. There, there, stop crying, 
sweet, stop. Ever3rthing will come right; I will take care 
of you. I have only sold my beauty this time, not my soul. 
— My God ! I sold that long ago." 

Joyful rose and drew herself to her full height, horrified 
at Marie's words, and amazed at her incoherence. "Why 
do you say there is no God to hear you, and then cry out 
* My God ' ? What do you mean by ' selling your beauty ' ? " 
she said, with quivering lips, and turned to go into her own 

"Don't leave me. Come back to me, child. There, it 
is nothing but wild talk. You may pray all you wish, in 
your own room, dear, not here. There is n't any God, any- 
way, or if there is He won't listen to you here. No, wait, 
wait ! I don't know what I am saying I am so wild to get 
away, and — the thoughts you bring to me make me crazy, 
but it will pass. See, child, I am myself now." She took 


Joytvl again tenderly in her arms and dried her tears with 
her own handkerchief. "Listen. We will talk quietly 
together and plan. I will put everything I have in my 
trunks and lock them to-day, and you must do the same. 
Then to-morrow we will go out together, and never come 
back, never, never. I will begin a sweet new life with you. 
I have something I can do now ; some one is coming to see 
me about it this evening ; I made the arrangement just now 
when I was called downstairs. You must do just as I tell 
you. Don't be afraid, little one, because I talked so wildly. 
I have hated so long, and I can love so hard, that between 
the two I am torn in pieces. We 'U leave the hatred behind, 
and if I have you I can take the love with me, can't I ?" 

"Yes, Marie, yes. I can love hard, too." 

Then Joyful went to her own room, and Marie stood 
before her mirror and examined her face and figure care- 
fully. "Yes, I am still beautiful," she murmured. "I 
will serve his purpose, and this time — Ah, there is no 
buoyancy of love to lead me on this time, but — I sell only 
my beauty, not my soul." Then she threw up her arms and 
sank to the floor, a cowering heap, crushed by the memories 
that surged in her heart. " God, God ! She wanted me 
to pray ! She wanted me to pray — me ! " 

When she arose, exhausted with emotion, she went to her 
cupboard and her beautiful, slender fingers trembled on the 
fastening. She turned away and paced the room, but her 
knees failed her, and she went back and opened the door. 

"I will take only enough to keep me up for this work," 
she said. "I can't trust the maid; I must do it alone." 



" I was caught 
So suddenly, that I ne'er took 
Counsel of aught but of her look, 
And of my heart : for her kind eyes 
So gladly on my heart did rise, 
That instantly my inmost thought 
Said it were better serve her for nought 
Than with another to be well." 

— Chaucer. 

For two hours Joyful worked busily in her own room. 
She heard Marie moving about, and hurried her own simple 
preparations that she might assist her, but the soimds 
gradually ceased, and when at last she knocked at Marie's 
door there was no response. She waited imtil long past 
the dinner hour, and as still no answer came to her gentle 
knocking, she pushed the door open, and then uttered a low 
cry of dismay. The bed was heaped with beautiful gowns, 
tables and stands were covered with gloves and fancy 
articles and jewels, a large tnuik stood open, partly filled, 
and about it on the floor were strewn slippers and boxes, 
shoes and laces, and in the midst of the debris, stretched on 
the floor, lay Marie in the same heavy stupor in which Jo)^ul 
had found her in the morning. The air of the place was 
close, and reeked with the fumes of liquor. 

Unknown as such sights were to Joyful in her heretofore 



idyllic existence, she recognized now that the creature lying 
at her feet was a dninken woman. Indeed, she had never 
realized before that a woman could be dnmken, and her 
whole being quivered with horror; yet, overriding her 
horror and, in a measure, calming her spirit, was a master- 
ing emotion of pity. A large and womanly grace entered 
into her child's soul. She was never a child again. 

She looked about for something to do. On a table near 
the door stood the dinner long since served for two, now 
cold and \mappetizing. She remembered how Madame 
that morning had offered to send up coffee for Marie, so 
now she poured a cup strong and black, and kneeling, tried 
to rouse her to drink it, putting her arm gently imder the 
inert head which rolled from side to side. She could do 
nothing. Then she sat beside her on the floor and wept, 
and again, with tears dropping on Marie's face, tried to 
make her take the coffee. 

At last she rose, and with set lips endeavored to bring 
order out of the chaos around her, but the task seemed 
hopeless. She felt faint and hungry, and ate a little of the 
cold food and drank some of the coffee. Then she heard a 
knocking at the door of her own room, and it seemed as if 
the beating of her heart was as loud as the knocking. She 
paused not a moment, but flew from Marie's apartment 
and turned the key in the lock and hid it, before answering 
the summons. Marie must be shielded from prying eyes. 

Then she opened the door and Madame La Grande 
entered. Her arms were full of clothing which she laid out 
on the bed. She spoke quietly, as alwa3rs, and very kindly ; 
yet Joyful, to her own surprise, did not feel her heart any 
the more drawn toward her. 


"How are you feeling?" she asked. "Rested since 

"I am rested, but I don't feel very well to-night." 

"Ah, yes. It 's been a trying day for you, of course. I 
thought you would soon have enough of her. Jim told me 
she was rolling drunk again when he brought up your 
dinners. You 're not used to such things, are you?" 

"I have seen a man drunk, but never a woman before." 

"No doubt." The woman took a chair unbidden, and 
motioned Joyful to another. "Since you are rested, we will 
have a little talk about your position. I am not ready for 
you to begin the lessons yet ; you can help me in other ways 
for a while. I have brought you some gowns more suitable 
for your position than those you have. There is a great 
deal of dress here. We will just try on one of these." 

"Oh, but I can't afiford to buy such dresses as those,'* 
cried Jojrfid in alarm, as Madame lifted an elaborate, pale 
yellow brocade from the bed. 

" Come," she said impellingly. " You need not buy them 
all at once; you can have all the time you wish. These 
are a great bargain; you can have them for half their value." 

" But I don't wish them for half their value ; that would n't 
be right." 

Madame La Grande turned Joyful about as she talked, 
rapidly removing her clothing, and, quite unheeding the 
girl's quivering remonstrance, soon had her entirely re- 
clothed, leaving on her no single article she had been wear- 
ing. Even on her feet she fitted pale yellow silk stockings 
and high-heeled slippers. The maidenly Joyful stood before 
her at last, transformed, flushed, shrinking and ashamed. 

"There !" said Madame La Grande^ leading her to the 


long mirror. "Now look at yourself. See what a lady 
you are." 

But Joyful lifted her head and looked searchingly in the 
woman's eyes. "I do not want these clothes. They are 
not suitable for me. I will not go imcovered here." Her 
bosom heaved and her beautiful throat throbbed. 

"Well, you can wear these lovely pearls about your neck, 
but yoiu: skin is more beautiful than they. Come." 

Still Joyful stood and looked into her eyes without 
moving or flinching. 

"Marie told me your name is Antoinette, and the name 
belongs to you in this dress, absolutely. Come, we will go 

But Joyful neither moved nor spoke. Then the woman 
turned on her sternly. "I need your assistance this even- 
ing. If you are ever to be of any use to me in this school 
you must yield to my judgment. You might have looked 
a long time before you had foimd any one to take you in 
as I have, with no recommendations or references, not 
even a letter of introduction." 

"Why did you do it?" 

"Because, as I told you, I needed you. One of my 
assistants died last week, and I was left in sad straits. If 
you have any worth or gratitude in you, you will do what- 
ever I set you. I don't want any foolishness. What I wish 
of you this evening is very simple. Every one is gone out, 
and there is no one to receive guests, and I am very tired 
and must have some rest. I wish you to remain in the par- 
lor and be affable to any one who may happen to call, and 
so take my place for the evening. You never could do it 
in those old duds I have taken off from you. This is a very 


elegant institution, and you must fit the place. You need n't 
be afraid. Just put on a pleasant face, and pretty, courte- 
ous manners, and you will get on all right." 

But Jo3rful was silent and immovable. Then Madame 
La Grande tried a different argument. " You may be sure, 
dear child, that I would not ask you to do anything you 
ought not. I have planned and contrived for you. I 
have even remodeled this lovely dress for you with my own 
hands, so you could appear a little more as a lady should in 
my parlor, and now you requite me by staring at me in 
distrust. This is the doing of that shameless girl. She 
has no gratitude in her. Here I am almost dead with 
fatigue and care, and unless you will pleasantly take the 
responsibility of guests and their reception to-night off my 
hands, I must go still longer without my rest. I am not 
going to ask this of you after the lessons in French begin. 
It is only for an evening or two, and at any rate, no one may 
be in." 

Then Joyful turned slowly toward the small mirror and 
gazed at herself. She could not believe in her own identity, 
as Madame gently took her by the hand and led her away 
down the magnificent stairway, and into the beautifully 
decorated and furnished parlors. There she left her alone, 
a waif tossed up by the tide-wash of a cruel ocean. 

Joyful stood breathless, waiting to hear the last of the 
swish and swirl of the woman's silken draperies as she swept 
up the stairway; then she drew a long breath, as if freed from 
a baleful presence, and looked about her. Everywhere she 
saw herself reflected in great mirrors let in the wall, or framed 
in gold, so that at first she felt as if surrounded by other 
young girls like herself, until at last she became abashed at 


the many reflections of herself and tried to avoid seeing 

Quite filling one end of the vast parlor was a large painting 
representing life-size nude women bathing by the sea. 
Their delicate, pink bodies stood out in strong relief against 
a deep blue ocean with green curling waves. Astounded 
and spellbound, Joyful walked slowly forward and stood, a 
small, slight figure, pathetically lonely, fascinated before it. 

Presently the heavy red curtains of the doorway behind 
her were pushed aside, and Mark Hiom entered and 
walked toward her. His footsteps, muffled by the rich rugs, 
she did not hear, and he stood quietly waiting. A moment 
they remained thus, then becoming intuitively aware of 
the presence of another near her, she turned and looked in 
his face. He started back, stunned for the instant by what 
seemed a miraculous resemblance to the girl of his last 
summer's idyl, but she, forgetful of her dress and surroimd- 
ings, everjrthing except that she was at last looking in the 
face of a friend, swept toward him with swift, eager grace, 
both hands extended, her face glorified by joyous emotion. 
He took the two hands in his, filled with dismay and 
anxiety, for he had had time to catch the sad, frightened 
look in her eyes in the first moment of discovery. 

" Joyful — Joyful Heatherby ! Is this you ? How came 
you here?" 

'* Oh, I don't know — a woman brought me here. I don't 
know where I am — I don't even know if I am I. I pmyed 
for you to come — for some one to come." Then, in 
another moment he had her folded in his arms and she was 
weeping on his breast. Scarcely conscious of what he was 
doing, he held her, wiping away her tears and kissing her face. 


As Joyful regained control of herself she remembered her 
unusual dress and naked shoulders and arms, and shrank 
away from him. She caught a scarf of flimsy drapery from 
an on}rx stand and drew it about her neck and across her 
breasty covering herself as best she could. Then, brokenly, 
the story was told. 

"How long have you been in this place. Joyful?" Mark 
asked with grave solicitude. Once before he had seen her 
weep and had longed to comfort her even as now, but then 
he had not dared to touch her. 

"I only came yesterday. Madame La Grande brought 
me. She said I might teach French in her school — but 
the time seems much, much longer, and — " 

"And you have been imhappy here?" 

"Everything seems strange. It seems not right some 
way. I don't know what is the matter, but I have a wrong 
feeling ; and I have seen no one to teach yet — and Marie 
Vaile, a very beautiful young lady who has apartments here, 
says Madame La Grande does not mean to have me teach 
at all, and she hates her. She has been very kind to me 
and has tried to make me happy, and has kept me with her 
and would not let Madame in — and yet — Madame has 
been good to me, too, but in a different way — I can't 
understand about it, nor what is before me, for it is all so 

"And how came you in this costume?" Her cheeks 
flamed crimson, she who had never been abashed in his 
presence before. He shrank from the brutality imposed 
on him by the necessity of questioning her. 

"Madame La Grande put it on me just now. She said 
I was to receive her guests for her this evening, as she was 


too tired and needed me, and so — she brought me down 
here and left me, and — I was going up to put on my own 
dress as soon as I thought she was really gone, and while I 
was waiting, you came. I would n't have been so frightened 
if I had known you were to be the first guest." She smiled 
through her tears, looking up in his face, the old April smile 
he had seen before and loved. 

"Thank God for that,'' he said. "Go now. Joyful, 
change your costume as rapidly as you can, and dress 
warmly. I am going to take you away. Go. Don't 
hesitate. We will find you ^ much pleasanter school in 
which to teach." 

"But I promised to go away with Miss Vaile to-morrow." 

"No. Not even imtil to-morrow can I let you stay. I 
give you fifteen minutes in which to dress for the street, 
and then you must put your things together as rapidly as 
possible. I will take them for you." 

"Oh, Mr. Thorn ! I can't leave her. She will die, if I 

"She was here before you came, was she not? Yes. 
Then I think she can live after you are gone. Trust me, 
Miss Joyful; this is not the school for you. If you are 
troubled about her, I will look after her. I came here to 
see her, at any rate, this evening, and I can come again." 

Then Joyful left him and hurried away in the trailing satin 
gown. Mark marveled at her beauty and grace. He had 
not dreamed the child could look so mature and womanly, 
and yet she had known sorrow in the few months since he 
had last seen her. He feared to let her out of his sight lest 
he lose her, but dared not speak to call her back lest he 
arouse the suspicion of some attendant. In haste he 


followed after, leaping up the stairs, and saw her vanish in 
her own room. Then he sat down there to watch and wait 
for her within sight of her door. 

He wondered at the emptiness and stillness of the place, 
but it was as Madame had said, every one had gone ou^. 
upon the streets or to the theaters, and only Joyful and 
poor drunken Marie remained on that floor. As he sat 
there, the boy passed him carrying the tray of food, and asked 
if there was anything he wanted; but Mark assumed an 
air of familiarity with the place and gave him money, 
sajdng he could look after his own wants, and the boy did 
not return. 

As he sat thus waiting on the stairs, Mark's heart raged 
within him. He cursed his fellow men with a sense of 
hatred toward them, and felt that, if it were necessary in 
order to take Joyful away from there, he could commit 
murder. Ere the fifteen minutes were gone, she reappeared, 
dressed as she had been when she arrived. Mark laid his 
finger on his Kps and met her at the door. 

'*Let me in a moment," he said. ''Where are your 
things? In that little trunk? I can carry them easily. 
You spoke of Marie Vaile. Where is she ? I wish to speak 
to her." 

"Oh, you can't," cried Joyful, with a frightened glance 
toward Marie's door. She had found time to go in and 
place a pillow imder the poor inert head, and had forgotten 
to turn the key and secrete it as before. Mark suspected 
some imhappy revelation, yet in his anger he determined 
to see Marie, if possible, and get some further explanation 
of Jojrful's experiences. Receiving no response to his 
imperative rap, he pushed the door open and entered, and 


then stood still, aghast more at the realization of what 
Joyful had suffered than at Marie's condition. 

'^ She was packing her things/' said Joyftd, sadly. 
YeSy X see. 

"We were to leave together to-morrow. It will break 
her heart for me to go without her. She was so good to me ! 
Oh, Marie, Marie I Speak to me 1" She knelt at her side, 
and again her tears fell on Marie's face. " Marie, open your 
eyes. Let me explain to you." 

Mark took her by the hand gently. "Come. We can- 
not wait here. She will know it is better for you when she 
gets over this." His heart overflowed with tenderness 
toward Joyful. He loathed to see her touch the dnmken 
creature, from whom he turned away his eyes in disgust, 
and his manner was almost rough as he led Jo3rful away. 
He could not help seeing her as he had seen her first, fair 
and fresh as a rose with the dew on it, and as imconscious of 
evil. Now he was seized with a frenzy of haste lest they 
be interrupted on their way out. He lifted the small trunk 
to his shoulder. "Follow me quickly," he said. 

At the outer door they were intercepted by the boy, who 
advanced swaggeringly and demanded to know of Mark 
what he was doing. 

"Openthedoor,"saidMark. And when the boy refused, he 
took him suddenly by the collar and twisted him about with 
one hand and tossed him sprawling on the floor behind them. 
Joyful sprang forward to imdo the fastening of the door her- 
self. She did not imderstand the complicated arrangement 
of locks and bolts, and Mark was still further delayed, but 
he managed to drag Joyful out in the cold winter air before 
the boy had aroused the guardians of the place. 


"We are free/' said Mark, drawing in his breath sharply. 
"Walk with me quickly, please, only a block or two, I will 
hail a cab and then we are off." 

And now, for the first time, Mark realized that he did 
not know where to take Joyful. That there were places, 
where she might be safely lodged for a time, imtil she could, 
find employment, he knew; but he quickly discarded alli 
thought of these. He did not wish to have her affairs toa 
closely questioned, nor to place her under any kind of vicari- 
ous or public surveillance, nor would he take her to his aimt. 
A chill, cutting wind was blowing, and Joyful shivered imder 
her great cloak, but she was not thinking of the cold, as she 
walked at his side weeping silently. 

They quickly arrived at a comer where cabs could be 
found, and Mark hailed one and they rode away together. 
Not being able to think of a better place at the moment, 
he directed the driver to his old studio rooms. He knew 
that, tucked away in a small comer of the building, lived 
the janitor and his wife, who was a voluble, shrewish English 
woman, yet kind-hearted in her way. If they would take 
care of Jo)^ul for a short while, he could think better what 
to do. Perhaps he could learn where the Drews were and 
send her to them. 

During the short half hour of their drive he was filled with 
varying and tumidtuous emotions. It seemed as if every 
moment he had spent in Joyful's presence since first he 
looked on her passed in review before him, and his heart 
throbbed in rebellious anger at her loneliness and peril. 
He vowed to himself that she should henceforth be his care. 
He would love her and shield her. He would wait until 
she was happy again, and then he would woo her mtsh a 


greater joy — and while he thought and brooded, she sat 
silently beside him weeping. Yet he would not let himself 
touch her again to draw her to him and speak out of the 
longing of his heart. He could not do so sanely, at this 

" Why do you cry, Joyful ? " he asked at last. " You 
i must not. You are safe now, and I am going to see to it 
that you are happy all the rest of your life. Why do you 

" Oh, I can't stop I I am not thinking of myself. It is 
because she is lying there so. I did n't mean you to see her." 

" Joyful, don't think of her," he said sternly. 

" She was sweet and dear to me, Mr. Thorn, and so very 
beautiful and so sad, part of the time. She must have had 
some great and terrible sorrow, but she did not say so; yet 
I think she hates to remember something — and so — she 
does that. I 'm so sorry you saw her." 

" Why are you, dear one ? " He murmured the last two 
words in a whisper, but she heard them and lifted her tearful 
glance to his face with the old questioning look he knew so 

" Because she ought not to be detested. I ought to have 
stayed with her — I — " 

" I will not detest her, then, if you don't like it. Stop 
crying. You will be ill." He feared himself and assumed 
a stemess he could not feel, and she lifted her head and 
gazed out in the darkness, trying bravely to regain her self- 

" I wish she were here with us," she said at last. " I am 
afraid for her — of something — I don't know what — " 
If this will lighten your dear heart, I will find out what 



becomes of her, and let you know. You see, I am always 
going to take care of you after this, Joyful, and we won't 
have any more tears or sadness, will we ? " He took her 
hand. She very gently drew it away, but stopped weeping. 
" You are most kind and good to me, but — you know — 
I can take care of myself without being a burden to any one, 
as soon as I find the right place." 

" Listen, Joyful. Was I not a burden to you once ? " 
" No, never, Mr. Thorn. Grandmother was so happy to 
have you there, and so was grand-daddy. And I — I loved 
to be with you and hear you talk." 

"And what if I also love to be with you and hear you talk, 
would you deny me that privilege ? " 
"No — but I can take care of myself, Mr. Thorn." 
"I know you can. Miss Joyful. You are a brave little 
woman, as well as a wise one. Now, when we get where 
I am taking you, I will ask them to give you board and lodg- 
ing for a week or two, and that will give us time to find the 
right kind of a place for you, as you said ; and in the mean- 
time I would n't talk to the woman very much about — 
your — affairs. I know the man very well, and he is a good 
sort ; but his wife — I have only seen her — I fear she is 
something of a scold. She may be a little aggressive. 
Don't let her annoy you. Just keep your own coimsel and 
wait until I come to you again. It may be a week, or more, 
but you can be patient imtil I do, can't you?" 
"Yes, if you think best — and — Marie — " 
"I will find out about her. Don't worry." So he com- 
forted Joyful, and when the cab stopped, her tears were 
dried, and she was beginning to think hopefully of the 


The janitor and his wife had not yet retired. The woman 
appeared to have just come in, for she still wore her bonnet. 
Having no children, she foimd time for other interests than 
those involving her own and her hiisband's affairs. Mark 
merely stated that he wished to find a safe and pleasant 
place for a little friend of his from the coimtry, mitil she 
could find a satisfactory situation. The pair were sur- 
prised, and the wife was reserved, but Mark had socm won 
his way with the man, and they were shown into the tidy 
little apartment of four rooms, one of which, exceedingly 
small, but white-curtained and neat, was given to Joyful. 

There Mark left her seated on her little trunk, bravely 
trying to keep back the tears which would start afresh when 
the door closed after him. He had promised he would find 
her anything she wished to do, and would return in a week, 
perhaps sooner, and his heart ached and beat madly when 
he turned away. 

Then he talked further with the janitor's wife, who had 
a chronic suspicion of all men, more especially of artists, 
whose vocation she did not appreciate, and of men her 
husband liked. After making a strict bargain with her, 
Mark paid board for two weeks in advance and took his 



*' So, she'd efface the score, 
And forgive me as before. 
Just at twelve o'clock 
I shall hear her knock 
In the worst of a storm's uproar — 
I shall pull her through the door — 
I shall have her for evermore I " 

— Robert Browning. 

Mark Thorn's aflFairs necessitated his arrival in New 
York immediately, and in order the sooner to return to his 
charge, he took a night train out of Boston within the hour, 
but with all his impatience he was detained even longer than 
he feared he might be. In his desire to please Joyful by 
bringing her some news of Marie, he wrote to that young 
woman asking an interview, without, however, making 
mention of Joyful. As he received no reply, he went, on his 
return to Boston, to the address given him by Scott Stevens 
as before, but learned that she was no longer there. 

He then demanded an interview with Madame La Grande, 
but from that astute individual no further information 
could be gained than that "Miss Vaile had been ill, and then 
had departed, leaving no address. Her apartments were 
to let on most reasonable terms, and if Mr. Thorn knew of 
any yoimg woman who wished a desirable home where she 
would be well cared for and chaperoned, would he be kind 



enough to recommend them ? She would be pleased to show 
him the suite which was * supplied with every convenience, 
modem and hygienic' " Thinking to satisfy Joyful by tell- 
ing her he had seen the empty rooms, he followed Madame, 
and was taken to the place where he had seen Marie stretched 
on the floor in drunken stupor ten days before, now swept 
and garnished for new prey. He turned away, sad at heart, 
and could not help wishing he had some clew to the poor 
young creature's whereabouts, yet he was glad also that she 
was completely lost to Joyful — for why need her dear heart 
be troubled by sin in which she had no part, and sorrow 
which she could not mitigate? 

He then hastened his steps and found himself excitedly 
eager to see her. Blessed little heart ! She should never 
have cause to weep again. He yet hardly knew what he 
was going to do with her — if only he could learn the ad- 
dress of the Drews ! How unfortunate to have lost them ! 
Everything took such an unconscionable time ! No doubt 
Nathanael was in communication with them, but to wait for 
letters to go first to him, and then follow them half around 
the globe would never do. He called a carriage and decided 
he would take Joyful out to drive, and then would have a 
long talk with her and persuade her to go back to Wood- 
bury Center and live at the rector's until he could come for 
her. Yes — that was the best plan — it might be dreary 
and sad for her, but it would be only a short time — and 
to be alone in the world fending for herself was certainly 
out of the question. 

Filled with these thoughts, he hurried along the corridor 
where the janitor had his four tidy rooms. He could 
scarcely wait for a response to his imperative knock, yet 


the wife was very deliberate in answering the summons, and! 
very distant and dignified as she waved him to a seat with 
a Mrs. Wilfer-like air. Mark could not help thinking of 
that austere lady with an inward smile, in spite of his pre- 
occupation. He took the seat offered, and waited. Mrs. 
Bings stood before him with folded arms, and also waited. 

"I wish to see Miss Heatherby," he said at last. *'Is she 

The janitor's wife bowed her head, and crossing the room 
with a firm> masculine tread, took from a small wooden 
workbox a letter which she gave him, holding it out gingerly, 
as if reluctant to allow him to touch it. 

"What is this?" he asked. 

"A note she left for you," she said sternly, and shut her 
mouth with a grim smile around her compressed lips. 

"Left for me ! Is she gone ?" he cried, rising and seizing 
his hat. "Where is she?" 

"You'd better compose yourself and read your note." 
She turned her back on him and continued the work she had 
before her of sponging and pressing a pair of her husband's 
trousers, which were spread out on an ironing board laid 
across the backs of two chairs. 

Mark felt, but could not interpret to himself, the chill of 
her contempt. Why this air of mjrstery ? Why had Joy- 
ful gone ? What had come upon her ? He read the note 
eagerly, and as he read, the blood mounted to his head and 
surged through his brain. 

"My dear Mr. Thorn," it ran; "I don't know what to say 
to you. I can't see you again, ever. I can't let you take 
care of me. I thought you were good. I trusted you as I 
did my dear grand-daddy. Oh, Mr. Thorn, if I could only 


die — but I can't 1 I must live and find Marie. Don't 
ever try to find me or to see me. 

"Mrs. Bings has told me all about it — where I was — and 
about poor Marie Vaile, and why she was so sad and strange, 
and how wicked every one is, and a great many things that 
you knew all the time. I know at last what some of the 
* Monsters ' are. You never went to see Marie in order to 
fight them. You too are wicked, and I wish I could have 
died before I found it out. I wish I could have died believ- 
ing you to be a true knight. 

" I must tell you the reason I can never see you again. It 
is because, down deep in my heart, I can't believe you are so 
bad, and I am afraid. I dare not trust myself. I am 
afraid you will persuade me to forget all I ought to remember, 
and I shall become at last like poor Marie Vaile. Mrs. 
Bings tells me that is what you will bring me to, and I can't 
believe it — and yet she says I must, so I will hide from you 

" Good-bye, Mr. Thorn, for always and always. Do not 
think me ungrateful. You were good to me to take me 
away, and always to talk about lovely things with me. 
Thank you, thank you for it all ; but now, just let me be 
lost. I shall be like a pebble thrown in the ocean. I shall 
lie on the sand and wait — you will never find me again. 
This one thing more I must tell you. When Mrs. Bings 
told me what you really are, it made my heart ache more 
than when I came to know that I never should see my dear 
grandfather and grandmother again. You see, in them I 
can still trust, I have not lost them, but now that I have lost 
my faith in you, oh, Mr. Thorn, it is like losing my soul 
when I lose yours, for my soul rested in its trust in yours, 


and now I have lost you. Before, it seemed as if I had some- 
thing.great and good here in the world with me, but now it is 
gone, and I know at last that I never had it. 

" Don't ever try to find out from the Drews or from 
Nathanad where I am. I shall never let them know where 
I am. I can never tell them where I have been. I am 
ashamed, and feel as if my heart is dead. That is all. 

^' Mrs. Bings has foxmd me something to do that is sweet 
and good, for I am taking care of three dear little children ; 
so if you care for me in the good way, which she says you 
do not, you may know that I am supporting myself and 
need no one to take care of me. I will try to remember all 
the beautiful days of last summer, when we talked together 
and I believed in you. It will be to me like a lovely dream 
to think about, and forget the rest — and yet this last is 
in my heart like fire, but sometime I hope it will bum out. 

" Forgive me because I can't see you again, and let me be 
hid from you forever. 

"Joyful Antoinette Heatherby." 

Mark rose to his feet and stood as if stunned. The 
room seemed to reel and the dishes on the dresser to dance 
about. Mrs. Bings still stood with her back to him and 
ironed away at the trousers, putting her iron down with 
heavy thumps. He could hear it hiss as it touched the 
damp cloth, and could see the steam rise about her head like 
smoke from infernal fires. How he hated that straight, 
relentless bracing of the spare shoulders! The very set 
of her head and the tightly screwed knot of hair on the back 
of it betokened to him the type of the bigoted fool. He 
felt the hatred so welling up in him that his fingers quivered 


to seize the tool in her hand and brain her with it. For 
once in his life he realized he had a devil within him. He 
essayed to speak, but the moistxire had left his mouth, and 
his lips were white and dry. 

He turned toward the door and there paused, clinging to 
it for support. He knew now how he loved Jo3rful. He 
would rather lose his life than lose her out of it. Even in 
this moment his brain was cleared and swept through with 
a very breeze of thankfulness as he thought what if he had 
married Louise and gone away with her, while he carried 
in his heart such a love as this for this girl ! What a terrible 
wrong had he been saved from committing! Then he 
foimd his voice and spoke quietly: — 

"Mrs. Bings, you have lied to that young woman. You 
have committed a deadly sin. You have killed — " 

But suddenly the woman turned, and all the vials of her 
wrath were let loose on him. 

"I know you and all your kind," she cried, slapping her 
iron down on its stand, and facing him with arms akimbo. 
*' I belong to the ' W'ite Ribbon Harmy ' and I know my duty. 
I Ve taken care of that girl. Poor little shorn lamb ! She 's 
safe now from the likes of you, and she '11 stay safe. I Ve 
put a flea in 'er ear. She '11 never look at you again ; no, 
not if you were to appear to 'er as a hangel of light with 
two wings and a crown. She '11 know the devil sent you. 
Poor little broken 'eart of 'er — if you could 'a' seen 'er 
cry as I did, you 'd repent o' your ways. Did you think 
I could n't read you ? I would n't trust any man further 
'n I could see the w'ites of 'is eyes. You see this badge ?" 
she pointed to a rag of a ribbon that had once been 
white, pinned to her dusty black waist. "That badge is 


a sign of purity, and it means that I 'm going to look after 
that girl 's if she were my own. That 's right. Go off, now 
you know you 're found out," she shrieked after him, as he 
hurried away from the sight of her face. He feared he 
might strike her dead if he stood there longer. 

She turned back to her work, muttering protestations 
against his ever intruding in her presence again ; and Mark, 
angry and hurt, reeled as he went back through the long 
corridor, so that he struck against the walls now on this side 
and now on that, and climbed into his carriage like a drunken 
man. There he sat and rode about for hours, directing his 
coachman first to one point and then to another. At last 
he returned, thinking he would find the janitor and hire him 
to learn JoyfuPs whereabouts for him. But Tom Bings was 
a wise man in his fear of his wife's tongue. He refused to 
have anything to do with the matter, protesting he never 
meddled in the women's affairs. At last, through the in- 
fluence of a crisp greenback — that most potent argument 
— he consented to do what he could ; perhaps he might get 
a letter to Joyful, which Mark was to send xmder separate 

"But it's the truth I'm telling you. I don't know no 
more where she is than I know what my wife's mother wore 
to be married in." 

"You know your wife has entirely mistaken her position. 
I will have the police take it up, if she does n't come to her 

But Mark knew he would not do that. He would find 
a better way than to hound his love to her place of refuge 
with the police. He would be patient and find her. Surely 
love would lead him to her. 


Later, as he pondered over the situation, he became in- 
censed with a feeling of indignation against Joyful, that she 
should be so persuaded to think evil of him by a stranger. 
Yet he considered how crushed must be her old faith in men, 
after the, doubtless, most brutal methods of Mrs. Bings. 
Surely the revelation of evil made, as that woman would 
make it, could be none other than a *' Horror of great dark- 
ness " spreading over her. How could she know whom to 
trust ! Then again he read her letter, blotted with her tears, 
and when he came to the words, " It is because, down deep in 
my heart, I can't believe you are bad, and I am afraid. I 
dare not trust myself," he pressed them to his lips. 

It was with a sadness he had never before experienced, 
yet with a strange moving of joy within him, as though a 
new hope had become a part of his daily life, a hope to be 
pursued, and at last realized, that he returned to his studio 
and took up earnestly the work in hand. 

He wrote to Nathanael, telling of Joyf ul's desolation only, 
and her present employment, and begging for information 
concerning the Drews. Then he waited and worked while 
the weeks slipped by, for Nathanael had not heard for a 
month from Elizabeth, and his last letter was still following 
her about. He replied to Mark in haste, and stated that he 
was soon to leave for New York, and later would be in 
Southern California, when he hoped to hunt them up. They 
could not be lost as long as he was in the world. He wrote 
buoyantly and hopefully. Everything was going well with 
him. His letter seemed to bring with it the breath and glow 
of the desert wind and sun. His invention was being used 
in the mines of the company, and he was to introduce its 
use in other mines. He had leaped into a position of im- 


portance by sheer brain and energy. He was like a power- 
ful spirit suddenly let loose from chains and imprisonment. 

Mark smiled as he read the letter, sitting one day in his 
studio, and his smile had in it a light of satisfaction. He 
knew his own hand had broken Nathanael's chain, and im- 
barred his prison door; and Nathanael knew it also. A 
strong imderciurent of vital friendship pervaded the letter 
and made this fact apparent to Mark without the use of 
set terms. 

Stm, where were the Drews, and'where was Joyful? 
Mark fell in the way of going frequently to Boston, and 
spending his Sundays roaming the streets among the resi- 
dence portions of the city, and even out in the suburbs, scan- 
mng the faces of those who rode in carriages with children or 
walked with them in parks. 

Once he was rewarded by a glimpse of Joyful's face, but 
he was too far away to reach her before she was gone. It 
was April, and she was dressed in a soft blue cloth. Her 
abundant dark hair waved beneath a small toque of the 
same color. The curling tendrils about her neck and ears 
were there, just as he remembered them. Two little girls of 
eight and ten, very elaborately dressed, danced on before her, 
and she led by the hand a boy, fair-haired and beautiful, 
who gazed up in her face as she looked down and talked 
to him. They came down the steps of a new and ornate 
house and entered an open barouche and were whirled away 
before Mark could hurry near enough to speak. Then for 
days he haunted the place, but saw no more of her or of the 
children, so he concluded they were but paying a visit there. 

Joyful had lost much of her old color, Mark thought, and 
her eyes looked large and sad. Seeing her thus, so perfectly 


gowned and mature, he realized how much he was losing of 
her, and yet he must wait She was now a woman, and 
when he had foimd her he must win her anew. 

For a time his work progressed slowly, and the order he 
had received from Mervain Thompson remained imtouched 
except for a few studies for the composition. 

One day as he sat before one of these, a woman entered 
his studio. She was in black, with only a touch of scarlet 
in her hat and at her throat, enough to add warmth and 
fervor to her appearance. Her eyes were neither brown 
nor black, yet they looked both dark and brilliant as she 
stood before him, silent. For a moment he did not recognize 
her. Then he stepped forward eagerly, and even held out 
his hand. 

"Ah, Miss Vaile ! I had begim to fear you were not going 
to accept my proposition." He was overjoyed. Perhaps 
through her he might find Jo3rful. 

"No? But I am here at last. I was sorry to be ill the 
evening you called — you did call ? " She stood before him 
with her birdlike poise of the head, and the look she gave 
him was keen. 

He grew suddenly wary, and remembering how he had 
seen her that night, answered evasively: "I called- several 
days later, and found you had gone. The woman gave me 
no address. Be seated, please." 

"No. I was obliged to move, and was very ill for a long 
time, and — I — hope I am not too late. Can you still use 

"I can, indeed. I am lacking just the model I should 
have — " He paused. The copy of the " Scarlet Letter " he 
had purchased lay on the stand at her elbow. He saw her 


eyes fasten on it. "Yes. My subject is taken from that. 
Can you find a child, do you think?" 

"Of what age?" 

"I have chosen the scene of the trial; you remember it ? 
These are my studies." 

" I have read it, yes. Some poor mother may be glad to 
have me borrow her child. I will try." 

"You can see from this study something of the style of 
dress. We must keep to the times and yet — considerable 
latitude is left us in the matter, as the text gives us the idea 
that Hester Prynne used her fancy in the modeling of it." 

"May I do the same, or do you prefer to design the 
dress ? " She turned suddenly on him, and a light seemed to 
shine in her eyes that belied her nonchalant air. He hesi- 
tated a little; then after a moment's further conversation, he 
said: "Yes, I think you grasp the idea. Of course the dress 
is not of the importance that the pose and the expression 
are. I can modify the costume to please myself. Will you 
find the chnd?" 

"Yes. Any little Italian beggar baby will do. When 
do you wish me?" 

"As soon as possible." 

" I will return in a week or less. Good-bye." She was 
gone as suddenly as she had appeared. 



" Sly Beelsebub took all occastons 

To try Job's oonstancy and patience ; 

He took his honours, took his health, 

He took his children, took his wealth. 
His camels, horses, asses, cows. 
And cunning Satan did not take his spouse. 

But Heaven that brings out good from evil 

And loves to disappoint the Devil, 

Had predetermined to restore 

Twofold all Job had before. 
His children, camels, horses, cows ; — 
Short-sighted Satan, not to take his spouse." 


After Marie left him, Mark stood long before his studies, 
ga2dng at them as if he were intent on the composition, but 
in reality he was not thinking of it. He was living over that 
night in Boston when he found Joyful. The sight of Marie 
brought it all back to him with new vividness. He won- 
dered also about Marie, and what Scott Stevens had to do 
with her. Then his thoughts wandered to Louise and their 
last evening together, and he lifted his head and laughed, 
and even as he laughed he thought of his smile in the boat 
and how Joyful had been displeased with it ; then his thoughts 
returned to the moment when she had wept in his arms and 
he had dried her tears. 



He seized his hat and walked out. Nothing but action, 
movement, would allay for a time the himger of his soul. 
Again he tramped moodily about, and again he encoimtered 
Mrs. Renolds, even as he had six months or more before, and 
again he rode in her little carriage. She took note of his 
worn and haggard appearance, and said in her heart, ''He 
has really taken his affair with Louise Parsons very hard." 

" You never come near any of us these days, Mr. Thorn. 
Are you turned into a veritable recluse?" 

"Not intentionally, no. Why? Do I appear one?" 

" How do I know, when I never see you ? You look worn 
and iU." 

He laughed. "Do I, indeed? But I am abnormally 

" That is just what I should say : Certainly not normally 
so." They were silent for a time, then s^e spoke again. 
"Have you heard thatMr. Van Burgh married May Carlie ? " 

"No. It — I thought he preferred some one else." He 
turned and looked at her, and their eyes met. 

"Possibly," she replied, with the faintest hint of a smile 
on her face. 


Once more they were silent, and then the conversation 
wandered over other bits of gossip, and at last Mark be- 
came restless. He longed to be again on his feet, moving 
about, thinking his own thoughts. This, Mrs. Renolds, 
with her subtle appreciation of his moods, quickly perceived. 

" Shall I take you back ? " she asked. 

"I ought to be at work, I suppose. We artists are such 
an easily diverted, idle class. Of course it is pleasanter to 
tide about here in the park and watch the spring unfold." 


"Then do that. I 'm sure it is better for you than work. 
It may not be kind to say so, but you certainly do look ill, 
Mr. Thorn. What are you doing now?" 

"Come in and see." 

"Thank you, I wilL May I bring the Van Burghs? 
They are with me for a time." 


"And you will call on them ? " 

"I will, indeed. Shall it be this evening?" 

"Oh — I—" Mrs. Renolds caught her breath. She 
had not expected him to be so precipitate. " I have another 
guest who — pardon me — whom you may not care to 
meet. Do forgive me if I am on forbidden ground — I — " 

"I assure you I am quite in the dark, Mrs. Renolds. 
There is no one living whom I would not willingly meet in 
your house. That goes without saying." 

She lifted her brows. " In this case it hardly goes without 
saying, since nunor has it, and one never knows what to 
believe of such bits of gossip, that you and Miss Parsons 
quarreled and that she is shortly to be married to Scott 
Stevens. Louise also is my guest." 

Mark laughed, not bitterly, nor contemptuously; yet 
when he spoke there was a slightly sardonic expression about 
his lips. "Then I will not appear — for your sake only, 
and possibly for hers, although she would no doubt take the 
situation calmly." Again he laughed. 

"You take your wounds merrily. I see my kindly com- 
miseration was all wasted." 

"My wounds? Ah, you see mine as well as hers were 
soon healed. I would like to propound one question, how- 
ever, to any one wise enough to answer it. How came Scott 


Stevens, who is not gifted with great originality, to succeed 
in persuading her to what I could not?" 

"I may not quite catch your meaning, ^o marry him, 
when you could not persuade her to marry you ? To me, I 
confess, that is one of life's mysteries." The soft pallor of 
Mrs. Renolds' face gave way to a shade only of pink. 

Mark hastened to explain. "Not at all! Not at all! I 
put my question badly. I mean how did he manage to 
persuade her to go through the conventional form of mar- 
riage, a ceremony which is meant not for enlightened souls 
such as she chose to consider hers and mine, but ' for the 
vulgar herd ' ? " 

"You mystify me, Mr. Thorn. Oh, yes. She was de- 
voted to some kind of cult — I have forgotten what — " 

"She had been listening to some damned nonsense, and 
when she refused to join * the vulgar herd ' and marry me in 
the good old style, I mildly suggested that I join her cult 
and that we follow her new, or ancient faith to its finish, and 
I take her without." 

"Mr. Thorn!" 

"But this she also refused, with the exclamation point 
such as you have just used, but — there you are. She re- 
fused to believe in marriage with any mimdane form requir- 
ing the intervention of priest or magistrate, yet she could 
not live up to her faith. I say, why have a faith if you can- 
not live up to it ? " 

"You should not have humored her whim, Mr. Thorn. 
Louise Parsons is a woman who would respect a man in 
proportion to his ability to dominate her. Now Mr. Stevens 
is eminently conventional. In his life he may have gone at 
times a little beyond the pale; indeed, I have been told 


he has; but even so, he would only do the conventionally 
incorrect thing which society allows and throws a mantle 
over, but, mind you, Louise must do only the correct thing 
if she becomes Mrs. Stevens." 

Mark turned on her with suddenly illumined face. ''In 
other words, Louise is stopping with you, and buying her 
trousseau, and having a generally good time, according to 
a conventional jroung lady's ideas of a good time, and you — 
you choose to say merely — 'it is rumored' and 'one never 
knows how much to believe of such gossip.' Pardon me — 
Why did you not tell me the truth ? " 

"It was a ladylike subterfuge, Mr. Thorn." 

"But why, pray ? A man would have dealt out the truth 
in one sledge-hammer blow. ' That girl of yours, the one 
who jilted you, is at our house buying her wedding garments. 
She is to marry that pig of a Stevens who so cleverly stepped 
into your shoes. They are to take their wedding journey 
in his yacht, sailing up and down the Mediterranean. I tell 
you. Thorn, if you wish a beautiful woman, put money in 
thy purse.' " 

"Mr. Thorn, that is brutal." 

"Yes — and the facts are brutal. I am that fool of a 
Jacob who served seven years for his love. Why, I ask for 
psychologic reasons, did you cover the truth with a mere 
side glance at it ? " 

"To spare you, Mr. Thorn. I wished to wound as little 
as possible." 

"Ah, but the sledge-hammer blow woimds less because 
it only stuns, and still spares a man's self-respect, while as 
for the other — it takes a keen knife to cut a man's heart 


"Thank you, Mr. Thorn. You have taught me some- 
thing — and yet, beKeve me, my only thought was to spare 

" That is it. You thought I needed sparing, which woimds 
a man's self-love." 

"Forgive me." 

"Mrs. Renolds !" he cried, waking to sudden contrition, 
" it is I who should ask that. I have been brutal. I did 
need sparing. My mood turned me into a savage and I 
struck at you, manlike. As I said before, we are brutal. 
However, you can believe me when I tell you that the wound 
is healed. You and I between us had managed to dig up the 
corpse of my dead love, which I thought was buried beyond 
our depth, and it was not fragrant — forgive me again, but 
you have also helped to reinter it more effectually. The 
grave is heaped mountains high with the world's earth-clods/' 

They rode on for a time in silence ; at last she uttered the 
thought that had lain in her heart during their whole con- 
versation. "May I ask who has been your physician? 
You say your woimd is healed, and so soon, yet you do not 
look like one who has fully recovered — from — something." 

"The physician was — to tell the truth I have had no 
physician. I simply made the discovery that I have been 
saved. I might have been married ere this to a combina- 
tion of line and color — to an artist's conception. Like 
old Andrea Del Sarto, I might have been whining out my 
complaint by this time, that were it not for my wife I could 
be doing great things in my art. When I was with Louise, 
my senses were always iSlled with her beauty. I have 
learned that such a condition is not love, and that of itself 
is a wholesome lesson. Her charms appealed to my aesthetic 


sense, not to my soul, hence my real womid has been to my 
vanity — to find a worse man amply filling my place in her 
heart — and — but you see I mean what I say, except for 
this last, my woimds are healed indeed." He looked wearily 
off through the vistas of the park. A robin sang his fitful 
note in a clump of shrubbery. He gave no heed either to 
bird songs or to the loveliness of the spring, and Mrs. 
Renolds perceived that neither was he thinking of her. 

"I will take you back now," she said, *'but really I think 
you ought to stop work and rest. You were in your studio 
half of last summer, you know. Gro abroad, Mr. Thorn." 

"You are most kind to think of my condition or happiness 
at all. Shall you go abroad this summer?" 

Her face brightened. "I had not thought of it — yet I 

"Ah? Possibly I may go abroad — but that depends." 
He was again thinking of Joyful. K only he could find her. 
"How long does Miss Parsons remain with you ?" he asked, 
as they parted. 

"I think only a week longer." 

"I will call on the Van Burghs then, if they are still with 
you; if not — " 

"I shall be there, of course," she said smilingly. "I 
am usually having tea every afternoon about the time artists 
are leaving their work for lack of light." 

" Good. I will put on a pleasanter face than I have worn 
to-day, and come to you for tea." 

During the week which followed this conversation, Mark 
received word from Tom Bings, whom he had so far won 
over to his cause by sundry fees as to induce him to attempt 
to get from his wife some information concerning Joyful, 


that the family with whom she lived contemplated spending 
a year abroad, and were to take her with them. This put 
Mark in an agitated frame of mind, so much so that he 
incautiously wrote the janitor that he must learn the name 
of the people and the date of their sailing. This letter the 
ever watchful Mrs. Bings one day found in her husband's 
coat pocket, and without the slightest compimction, read. 
Then was let loose on poor Bings a torrent of righteous 

" Oh, I know you men, you 're all alike. You, Tom Bings ! 
My 'usband, selling that girl's soul for a few dollars to carry 
around in your dirty pocket. I suppose 'e thinks 'e 'U go 
along to Europe with 'er, but it won't do him any good, I 
can tell 'im that right 'ere and now. I 've put a flea in 
'er ear. It would n't do 'im any good if 'e sailed in the same 
boat with 'er to the North Pole. She 's just one of the kind, 
you might tear 'er 'eart out of her, poor little thing, with 
you two men 'ounding 'er to earth. I 've told 'er what 'e 
is over and over. I 've 'eard enough of the goings on of 
those artists, and 'e 's one of them, and the way 'e looked 
at me you 'd have thought 'e was Satan 'imself , and you, 
Tom Bings, a-throwing 'er over to 'im. That 's what I call 
makin' straight for fire and brimstone on your own two 
legs, of yoxu: own free will, spite of all I can do, 'olding on 
to your coat-tails to keep you back, and takin' 'er along with 
you and shovin' 'er in. But I '11 save 'er. 'E '11 never get 

Tom moved about the room sulkily, filling his pipe and 
muttering. At last he ventxured to interrupt her steady 
flow of words. "You think you are doing her a good turn, 
do you ? Well, I can tell you you 're keq>ing her out of a 


good home, that 's what you 're doing. I can see as far 
through a millstone as you can." 

"Oh, you can, can you? 'Ow came he to find 'er? 
Wat business 'ad 'e there? I can put two and two to- 
gether without seeing through any millstones. I understand 
the wickedness and infamy of men. But, thank goodness ! 
I won't 'ave to be watchdog for 'er much longer. Come 
first o' June she '11 be safe, and 'e can stand on shore and 
w'istle for 'er. 'E don't know the name of the family she 's 
with, and 'e don't know the name o' the boat she goes on, 
and 'e don't know if they 're sailing from Boston or New 
York. I 've read in my papers and I know w'at men '11 do 
to get their own way, 'nd what dreadful crimes they'll 
commit. There 's the very last number of the Woman^f 
Kingdom tells about a man who took his girl up to the top 
of a chxirch, and cut 'er all to pieces. There ! Tom Bings. 
You take your pipe out of 'ere. No lighting it in my 
presence. I 've told you till I 'm worn out talking, if you 
will hang on to your sinful indulgences, take yourself off 
w'ere there are no women to be insulted by them. Tobacco 
is an offense to any good woman's nostrils." 

Then Tom Bings did as he was told. He took himself 
off to the nearest saloon, and there ordered beer to go with 
his pipe, and sat himself down in peace to indite a letter to 
Mark, containing the last bit of news he had gathered from 
his wife's remarks, after this manner : — 
"Mr. H. Thorn, Esq. : 

"Dear Sir, I've done all I can, and this is the last. 
The old woman foimd your letter asking for information in 
my pocket, and jumped on me. She 's been buzzing at me 
ever since like an alarm clock, and I don't expect her to 


run down for a week. She 's an eight-day one. But this 
much she let out. The family are to sail first of June 
sometime. Moreover, their name is Burt. I saw the girl 
walking into a store with the kids the other day, and I got 
the little chap by himself and asked his name. He said 
Harry Burt. Then I asked his father's name, and he said 
George ; and then I asked him where he lived, and he said 
something, I could n't teU just what, but it 's in the big-bug 
part of Boston — I could see that by the turnout. The 
girl called him then, and they climbed into a rig and drove 
off, so that is all for the present. 

"Yours truly, 

"T. BiNGS. 

" P.S. Better let up on letter writing." 



"We met there face to face : 
I said the crown should fall from thee ; once more 
We meet as in that ghastly vestibule : 
Look to my brow I Have I redeemed my pledge? 


True to her word, Marie Vaile returned in a week. She 
was accompanied by a sad-eyed, apathetic young mother 
with a babe in her arms 

"I have brought the child, Mr. Thorn," she said, "and the 
mother will wait here imtil you are through, and when you 
wish it she wiU bring it again." Then Marie stepped nearer 
him and spoke in a low voice. "She is a poor imfortunate 
I found in the street. I have been caring for them and 
feeding them up all the week to get the baby in better 
condition. I do hope you can use the child. She needs 
the money." The baby gazed up at Mark with great, im- 
winking eyes. It had been well fed and lay quiet in placid 
content. "I can make it smile, see?" and Marie bent 
over it, smiling herself, and touching its cheek with the tip 
of her finger, and the child twisted its face into a weird little 
grin. Marie looked appealingly in Mark's eyes, and he 
saw she wished him to use the wan little baby from pity. 

"Oh, yes. The child will do finely. It has big dark 

eyes, you see." 

"Yes. I thought of the eyes," cried Marie, gladly. 





Then she took the mother and babe into the dressing room, 
and when she returned, both Marie and the child were 
transformed. On the bosom of her own dress she had 
fashioned a scarlet letter of fine cloth and gold embroidery. 
She carried the baby in her arms, and the little one looked 
indeed a veritable witch child, its small old face framed in a 
close cap with tiny peak at the top, and turned open at the 
sides with lace revers. Its black elf-locks escaped the con- 
finement of the cap over the forehead and temples, and 
surroimded its wan face, while its great eyes shone out like 
cairngorms under the dark fringe. Marie had fashioned 
the child's dress after a quaint old pattern of a dark red- 
brown stuff — the hems edged with very narrow gold bands. 
The waist fitted the small body. It was low at the neck, 


and the close sleeves ended at the elbow. 

Her own dress was of a changeable material, silken in 
texture, a dull old blue with shifting lights that seemed to 
throw out gleams now of green and now of gold ; and the 
skirt, gathered to a cord at the pointed waistUne, hung in 
long, soft folds and wrinkled about her feet. Her rich hair 
lay in shining waves about her face, and she had drawn it 
high at the back and fastened the soft coils at the crown of 
her head with an ornate, gold-tipped shell comb. Her 
sleeves were close at the wrists and so long as to cover all 
of her hands but the beautiful fingers, on one of which she 
wore a costly jewel. The gown was cut away from the 
throat, and her slender neck with its delicate curves rose 
in translucent whiteness above it. She stood a moment 
with her birdlike poise of the head, looking at Mark, hold- 
ing the child on one arm, the other dropped straight at her 
side. She did not smile, — her manner seemed more that 


of one leading a forlorn hope, and her eyes questioned him 
in silence. 

Mark looked at her a moment, taking in every detail, 
then he said, "You are an artist. Miss Vaile, and a daring 

She smiled, and after an instant replied, "I know it." 

Then Mark thought, as he often did, how Joyful had 
once objected to his smile, and now he understood it as he 
had not before. He took Marie's hand and led her to a 
raised da!s in a far comer of his studio, where the light fell 
warmly over her. "Stand here a moment and we will 
talk it over," he said. "Stand just as you did at first. Is 
the child heavy?" 


Then Mark sat silent before her, and the moments 
passed. Presently he took his {>encil and began to work. 
At last he asked, "Why, then, did you not make it your 

"Make what my profession, Mr. Thorn?" 

"Art. I said you are an artist, and you said 'I know it.' 
Now I ask, why did you not make it your profession?" 

A tremor passed over her, and suddenly her expression 
became what he was looking for — at least it was a mood, 
he might find others better, but would have this. Her eyes 
burned with a warm glow while she looked, not at him, but 
at something beyond him. 

"Oh, I was artist enough by nature — to do — to do — 
what most artists do, only I did not wait to achieve some- 
thing in art first, like most of you. I did n't even know I 
was an artist. I thought I was nothing but a lonely girl, 


She paused, while he worked rapidly for a few moments, 
then he said, '^ Go on, Miss Vaile, tell me more/' Although 
seemingly absorbed in his work, his manner was interested 
and kindly, and she spoke again, not as if giving a confidence, 
but as in soliloquy. 

"My life was dull — it was meanly dull. I thought I 
had foimd a joy in it. I stopped making tea every after- 
noon for stupid old women and curates, I — I tried to seize 
the joy, and — " The baby in her arms grew restless. 
She shifted it a little, and it leaned its head on her shoulder 
and thrust its small hand in the neck of her dress. A 
burning flush suffused her face for the first time at the touch 
of the baby hand. Mark looked up and then bent eagerly 
to his work. 

"And what then?" he asked. 

"I had a dream. I thought it was real, but it was not, 
— and then — even when I knew it was not, I still believed 
in it, — because it was beautiful. I thought I could make 
it become real — could make it true. I threw away every- 
thing for it — my very soul I cast away — and — and I 
was swept into a maelstrom and was lost — and — now, 
now I am here posing for this." She touched the letter 
on her bosom. 

Eagerly, fiercely Mark worked, while the silence of the 
room remained unbroken. The child fell asleep on her 
shoulder just as it lay, one hand thrust in her dress, the 
other small fist in its mouth. At last Mark took notice of 
her that she had grown deathly white. His heart smote him, 
and he sprang forward and caught the child from her, and 
placing one arm about her waist he supported her to a couch. 

"Here, take it," he said, dropping the baby in its mother's 


lap. Then he brought water and bathed Marie's forehead 
and temples, and gave her wine. She seized the glass and 
drank eagerly, and again Mark thought of how he had seen 
her on that terrible evening when he had found Joyful but 
to lose her again. He put the bottle away and gave her 
no more, although he saw her eyes follow it furtively. The 
baby woke and cried, and the mother hushed it, rocking it 
to and fro in her arms, and it grew still. 

Mark went back to his easel, and soon became lost to 
everything but his work, rapt in his theme. He was seeing 
in his mind the expression Marie's face had worn when she 
said " I had a dream. I thought it was real, but it was not." 
At last he rose and walked back to study his canvas, and 
Marie stood beside him, dressed for the street, while the 
yoimg mother waited at the door. 

" I must go now, Mr. Thorn. When shall I come again ? " 

"To-morrow morning." 

Marie looked down. Her lips were feverish and her eyes 
burned. "I can't come to-morrow," she said in a low voice, 
"and maybe not the day after. May we say Thxirsday ?" 

"I wish to get on as rapidly as possible." Mark was 
saddened, for he guessed why she refused to come for two 
days. "Won't you try to come to-morrow? This has 
been a severe siege, I know, Miss Vaile, but I will be more 
considerate hereafter. You shall not pose more than 
fifteen minutes at a time. You must pardon me for this. 
I — I forgot you were made of flesh and blood and could 
grow weary." 

She laughed. "I wish I were made of stone," she said. 

"You will try to be here to-morrow," he pleaded. 

"It will be impossible, Mr. Thorn," she said imperiously. 


''I prefer to set a day I know I can keep. Shall we say 

"Very well," he said, but still looked gravely and intently 
at her. She felt herself held by his eyes, and became 
embarrassed, dreading lest he divine her reason. She 
turned and gazed at the canvas. 

"You have done wonders in so short a time," she said. 
"You will soon have finished, Mr.- Thorn." But he did 
not reply. "I am glad you did n't disapprove of the dress. 
I see you have kept the colors. I searched half over New 
York for just that material, and where do you think I 
found it at last?" 

"I can't imagine." 

"In a furniture shop, where antiques are manufactured." 
They both laughed, and the tension of his mood was broken, 
as she wished it to be. 

"And where did you get your design?" 

"From an old portrait that hangs in the hall at home in 
England. It was one of my ancestors, and they were 
reformers, so I thought I might use it, only I have chosen 
a color that makes the scarlet more vivid. You remember 
the text says, *Her dress was of a splendor which was in 
accordance with the taste of the age, and beyond what was 
allowed by the rules of the colony,' so I chose something as 
rich as I could get in material." 

"You were quite right in your conception — but — are 
you caring for this woman?" He glanced toward the 
mother of the babe. 

"Yes, I must — we might lose them else, and an5rway 
she might die. It was wretched where I found them." * 
Marie shivered. 



"No doubt/' said Mark. ''Such things are awful. 
He thrust some bills in her hand. "Come, Miss Vaile, 
you must be at no expense for this, and later we will settle for 
all yoxur pains. Be here to-morrow, if you can — and — if 
not, come as soon as possible. I am always here in the 

Thus intermittently the work progressed until the ist 
of June was nearly at hand. While Mark was engrossed 
in his art, and the one thought that i)ossessed him, many 
things were transpiring in which he was vaguely interested. 
Indeed, all events save his purposeful labor and his love 
for Joyful receded from him. Even to know that his old 
love had married and gone on her wedding journey stirred 
him only to a quiet smile. 

"And they didn't take the Mediterranean trip, after all. 
They are gone but for a few weeks, no one knows where, 
and this simuner they will take a yachting party to the 
Land of the Midnight Sim," said Mrs. Renolds, as she 
handed Mark his tea one afternoon. She was the only one 
who kept him in touch with his former world, although his 
visits to her were infrequent, and she never appeared in his 
studio unless to bring friends. 

"Ah, why did they change?" Mark gazed vaguely 
through the long vista of Mrs. Renolds' drawing-room as 
seen from the small Turkish nook where her guests usually 
accepted tea from her deft hand. None poured tea with a 
prettier grace than Mrs. Renolds. 

"How could I know? How does any one ever know 
why Louise does things?" 

"Are you quite sure the change of plan was her sugges- 


''No. But it is like her to do some erratic thing at the 
last moment, like going off on this queer wedding journey 
and making everything very mysterious. I believe we 
agreed, did n't we, you and I, that her motives are usually 
imaccoUntable, like this whole matter of marrying Scott 
Stevens, after all her high and poetic aspirations — her 
longings and soul quivers, and throes, to turn about so 
suddenly and marry the most conventional — Ah, well ! — " 
Mrs. Renolds ceased speaking, and sighed with a little 
shake of the head. Mark seldom mentioned Louise, 
never unless she introduced the topic in a clever way she 
had. She could not yet determine whether the indefinable 
barrier between herself and the artist was because his 
woimds were not so fully healed as he implied, or whether 
his experience had led him to clothe himself hereafter in 
armor which should be impervious to Cupid's darts. How- 
ever, Louise as a topic of conversation seemed to give a 
tone of intimacy to their companionship which nothing 
else afforded, and Mrs. Renolds did not resist its intrusion. 
Now she paused, since Mark evidently had lost interest 
for the moment, still dreamily sipping his tea, and gazing 
as if he saw something at the end of the vista of her drawing- 
room. She even glanced out into the conservatory herself ; 
then, as he put down his empty cup, arrested his departure 
with the query: — 

"Why do you think it might not be her suggestion? 
Won't you smoke ? You know I never dislike your ciga- 

"From something that occurred in my studio just before 
the wedding. Thanks, it is awfully good of you to let me 
smoke here." 


Mrs. Renolds, with wide eyes and parted Iqps, leaned 
forward and looked at him and shook her head. ^^In your 
studio I What do you mean, Mr. Thorn — were they 

^'It was while Louise was with you — did she not tell 

Mrs. Renolds did not attempt to conceal her surprise. 
She thought it the height of indelicacy for Louise to take the 
successful man to her former lover's studio. Why did she 
do it? Mark saw the question in those dark, lifted eye- 
brows. He saw also the critidsm, and, willing to save 
Louise from adverse comment, he e;q>lained. 

''It was for my aunt's sake. She is unduly fond of us 
both, you know, so we patched up a truce between us, and 
I invited Louise to bring Scott and select their wedding 
gift, and she was gracious enough to accept my courtesy, 
and also to tell me she had never been great enough for me 
and all that kind of thing. Hereafter my aunt's home is to 
be our common meeting ground, where everything is to be 
amicable and our intercourse set back as far as possible on 
the old footing of camaraderie." 

"How wise you are, and how patient, Mr. Thorn!" 
In her heart she said, ''And what a blind fool Louise has 

Yet Mrs. Renolds with her millions was not really com- 
petent to judge and properly weigh the motives which might 
influence another woman with no millions, since her care 
was not so much how to acquire them as how to bestow 
them; while Mark Thorn, for the moment smoking 
and seeing visions, was thinking of neither possibility. 
Certainly, although he enjoyed Mrs. Renolds and ai^re- 


dated her friendship, he was quite evidently not seeking 
her fortune, and she, wise woman, in spite of her liking for 
Mark, was well pleased to cloak that regard with simple 
good fellowship, imtil she could make him think of her 
with more active sentiment, and at the same time imagine 
the initiative his own. She would never allow a man to 
know himself led to his wooing. She would go unwooed 
else, and allow neither him nor the world to guess at a 
warmer regard in her. 

Tentatively her eyes now followed the direction of Mark's 
gaze, and they both sat silent. Then, "But I interrupted 
you," she said. "What occurred in your studio? I am 
very curious." 

" That is hard to tell you. I don't really know, myself. 
It was not any particular event, it was more an atmosphere 
that permeated the moment. The place seemed charged 
with electric disturbance, indefinable, and apparently 
generated without cause — at least, as far as Louise and I 
were concerned. I had a model and was stupidly busy, so 
I let them prowl around as they liked. I heard him say 
something about finding the Mediterranean trip impossible, 
and heard her cry of surprise and disappointment, and then 
suddenly I became aware of the charged atmosphere, and 
that is all. They saw my model, and knew, of course, that 
I was engrossed, so stayed but a short time." 

Mark had contrived a wide ell from the main part of his 
studio as his workroom, which, while it could be seen from 
some parts of the larger portion of the place, had still the 
appearance of being secluded for private uses. On the dais 
of the alcove in this ell Marie posed for Mark's conception 
of Hester Prynne. His more familiar guests frequently 


strolled about the rest of his studio at their idle pleasure, 
while Mark, oftentimes imheeding their coining or going, 
worked on at his easel in his own comer. The imaginary 
line that separated them from him was seldom crossed, or 
his labor interrupted, except by special invitation. 

It was one rainy April morning, not long before the 
wedding, that Scott Stevens and Louise made their visit 
to the studio. Mark had expected them for several days, 
and had placed in view some of his most attractive studies, 
from which Louise was to make her selection. 

"You are to take all the liberty you please Here," said 
Mark. "If you don't care for any of these finished pieces, 
here is a portfolio full of studies from which to select, and 
in the meantime I will go on with my work. Say what you 
please about them. I shall be oblivious." 

"You are too dear, Mark. Do you mean I am to have 
anything I please of all these ? How lovely ! We must 
study them very carefully, Scott, and you must help me. 
I want Mark to think I have made a good choice. Yes, 
indeed, Mark, go back, don't let us interrupt you." 

So Mark returned to his easel, and Marie Vaile, who had 
sat unheeding what was passing, resting in a curtained 
niche, rose and took her position on the dais with the baby 
on her arm, and the work went on. 

Louise was very beautiful that morning, with a stately, 
classic beauty. The long lines and soft coloring of her 
perfect gown emphasized the grace of her figure, and the 
delicate opal tints of her complexion. She was content 
with herself, and glad that Mark was dear and reasonable 
about the whole thing. While she moved from picture to 
picture, studying each one earnestly, Scott watched her 


with unconcealed admiration. He was actively affable 
and prone to agree with all she said. 

Presently she paiised before one of the finished pieces, a 
smooth bay with gay craft mirrored in it, a wonderful arch 
of sky, and all in a glow of rose and gold light as seen through 
a thin veil of simset-tinted mist. "Oh, this is charming. 
Look, Scott !" And Scott looked, walking slowly backward 
to get a perfect view. Suddenly, as though drawn by a 
magnet he turned his face away from the picture toward 
Mark's comer, and found himself gazing into Marie's eyes, 
which burned and glowed through his conventional mask, 
eating their way into his soul like fire, ujitil he seemed to 
turn to ashes in their blaze. 

Louise knelt before the picture, absorbed in its beauty, 
then rose and moved back, making two rings with her 
gloved hands through which she gazed, shutting off sur- 
roimding objects. 

"Mark, where did you paint this wonderful evening sky 
and water piece ? " 

" In the Bay of Naples. Do you like it ? " 

"Immensely! Scott, it fires me with enthusiasm for 
our Mediterranean trip. Shall we see such beauty as this 
there, Scott?" 

A qidver passed over Marie's frame. She held the child 
closer until it cri«d out, even as the child had cried in Hestep 
Prynne's arms, while Scott still gazed in her eyes and at the 
scarlet letter on her breast. 

As he did not reply, Louise looked up at him. "Scott,'' 
she cried, "are you ill? Why are you so pale?" 

Mark was not heeding them. He had seen a look in 
Marie's face he wished to paint — the look of Hester 


Prynne when she gazed in Arthur Dimmesdale's eyes and 
refused to tell the name of the father of her child. He 
wished Scott and Louise would go, that he might work. 

'^ Scott," said Louise again, and laid her hand on his 
arm. He turned and walked feebly toward the picture. 
"Are you ill, Scott?" 

Then he braced himself, and the color returned to his 
face. *'No, no — Only a passing pain. You know, 
Louise, I can't take that Mediterranean trip. I am sorry, 
if it will disappoint you." 

"Not take it ! But you said you would, only this morn- 
ing — not ten minutes ago, Scott. Why can't you? I 
am disappointed." 

"I thought I could ten minutes ago, but now it comes 
over me that I cannot, that is all." He seemed to speak 
roughly, and she looked up in his face in surprise, but he 
smiled down at her, and Scott Stevens knew how to smile. 

"Then — then I shall choose this," she answered, look- 
ing at the picture, " if I am never to see Naples from the 
sea. Mark, this will have to be my Mediterranean trip, 
and you will have given it to me, after all," she called out 
to him. 

"Thank you," said Mark. "I am glad you chose that 
one. It is a favorite of mine." 



** For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave. 

The black minute's at end, 
And the elements rage, the fiend voices that rave. 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul I I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be at rest I " 

! — Robert Browning. 

The time arrived at last which Nathanael Stoddard had so 
long hoped and labored for. He had been given a position 
of importance by his employers, had been allowed to test 
and perfect his invention in their mines, and had, after 
great effort and unremitting attention to their interests, 
succeeded in securing their cooperation in its manufacture 
and introduction in other places. 

Eleven months had passed since he had left his sterile 
farm and already he foimd himself on the road to fortune. 
Given the opportunity, he had had the brains and energy 
to develop the possibilities. That which had been stored 
up within him while he was patiently toiling over his 
father's stony acres, and submitting to what had seemed 
to him at the time, the inevitable, which was eating his 
heart out during those years of slavery and dullness, now 
that it was let loose in its natural field of activity prov#xJ 
to be a very catapult of power. 



"That young chap," said one of his employers, "is worth 
' one of our mines to us. He 'd plow through the imiverse 
to conquer an obstacle. I showed him some of the diffi- 
culties of that Sunset Claim, and he said, ' I love a tussle 
with elemental nature. When a man has overcome primal 
forces and molded them to his own uses, it is an inspiring 
feat. He feds hand in glove with the Creator of them, so 
to speak.' It 's my opinion he 'U make a success of it." 

Had Mark met Nathanael suddenly, he would hardly 
have known the sun-browned, sinewy fellow. His very 
physique seemed to have grown larger since his emancipa- 
tion to larger conditions. Certain it was that Elizabeth 
Drew, standing one morning watching the sujirise from a 
height on the island of Catalina, did not know him for a 
moment, as — feeling the disturbance of a near presence 
when she had thought herself alone — she turned suddenly 
and looked in his face. They stood silent for an instant 
gazing at each other, she with the sunUght of the mornmg 
in her eyes — he with the simlight of his risen hope in his. 

He smiled and held out both his hands toward her. 
She wavered, standing like a dignified queen between him 
and the rising sun; then she placed her hands in his, and 
her face lighted with an answering smile of glad welcome 
that betrayed in an instant of time an eternity of love, 
tmknown to herself. 

"Nathanael, how is this possible !" she said, drawing in 
her breath and hardly uttering the words aloud, as if she 
feared he might be a vision conjured out of her morning 
dreams, to vanish at the sound of her voice. 

For him, so long had he cherished the thought of her, 
his inspiration from day to day, so long his heart had been 


calling out to her through space telling her of his love, it 
seemed to him that she must know ; and now standing still 
silent, unable to put his tremendous emotion in words, he 
slowly drew her towards him, his eyes fixed on hers, until 
their lips met. 

"This is how it is possible," he cried jojrfully. "The 
glory and the awakening have come at last. See." He 
turned her again toward the blaze of sunlight that now broke 
above the horizon covering the beautiful Bay of Avalon 
and the ocean beyond with molten gold — pale morning- 
gold and rose. 

Elizabeth's cheeks burned, and her lips quivered. She 
had been swept out of herself by his intensity and her own 
joy, yet, so long had she been possessed by the idea that he 
was Joyful's lover, that she could not in a moment adjust 
her mind to this greeting, nor to his whole expression and 
bearing and the revelation it brought her. So again, for 
a longer space of time they stood silent, gazing ; she at the 
sea, and he, with respectful tenderness, on her illiunined face. 
The light played over her shining hair. He thought it had 
grown more beautiful than it used to be. At last she 
lifted her eyes to his, and knew he was not Jojrful's lover, 
but her own. For an instant, and suddenly she felt herself 
disloyal to the child, and drew a step back, then she swayed 
and put out a groping hand, as if she were feeling for the 

Nathanael placed his arm about her and led her to a 
jutting rock. "Suppose we sit here a little while and 
talk," he said. "How long is it — eleven months — eleven 
years I would better say — since we bade each other 
good-bye? You remember the scolding you gave me 


once? It has borne fruit. I have come to you full of 
boasting and pride." 

"You are not the same man now, Nathanael." She 
knew the man who had timidly asked then if he might 
sometimes write to her would not have dared meet her 

"No, not the same man, thanks to you and Mr. Thorn; 
but the same man I had the heart to be, and the same heart 
to meet you with, Elizabeth." 

She covered her eyes with her hand a moment, as if to 
shut out the glory of the sea and sky, that she might the 
better look within and understand something in her heart.. 
"I am bewildered, Nathanael. How do we two come to be 
away off here on this island, alone on a mountain top watch- 
ing the sun rise ? Where is Joyfid ? " 

He laughed and took the hand that covered her eyes in 
his. "It is the simplest thing in the world, Elizabeth. 
You came here to see this sxmrise, and I followed you." 

"Where is Jojrful?" she asked again. 

"I don't know — somewhere in the land of the living. 
I think Mr. Thorn knows. I have a letter from him in 
my pocket. What has Joyful to do with us?" She was 
silent. "Elizabeth, I 've been raising that crop you advised 
me to cultivate. You remember what I told you then? 
My self-conceit has grown to enormous size, and your reap- 
ing time has come." 

" Sometimes we sow for others to reap. Give an accoimt 
of yourself. Did you just happen here ? I can't get over 
the wonder of it." 

"No, nothing ever happens, I take it; not to me at least. 
Every step of my life seems to have been planned and 



worked for, from the time my blessed mother slaved to 
make me the man I am. No. Did n't you receive my 

"I have had none for over a month." 

"Ah ! That would have told you how I come to be in 
this part of the world, but never mind, this is better. I 
have been traveling about in the wild, rough places of the 
earth, visiting mines. I won't go into details now, but the 
same business took me to Los Angeles to meet a company 
of mine owners, and I gladly did so. I hoped I might take 
enough time for myself to seek you. Yesterday morning 
I found your names on the hotel register and learned that 
you had come here, and of course I took the next boat." 

"Then you arrived last evening ?" 

"Yes — but you had gone off on some excursion with 
others, and I waited." 


"I could afford to wait a little longer, Elizabeth, and 
now — " 

"Tell me all from the beginning, please — all about your 
work, and successes — I can see success in your eyes, in 
your whole bearing — and certainly you deserve it." 

"Do I?" he said happily. "We'U see if I have it. 
When was the beginning? The day I said good-bye to 
you? But that was an ending." 

"Are n't endings usually beginnings? That closed your 
old life, but it also began your new." 

"That day was neither the close nor the beginning of 
what I am to tell you." 

" Never mind, begin there, because I know all up to that 


"Do you ? Very well." Then Nathanael began, not at 
all in the proud and vamglorious spirit of which he had 
boasted, but with the dear and decorous modesty of the 
lad of Woodbury Center, who adored while loving. His 
wooing was simple and tender, yet imdemeath it all was 
a gentle insistence not to be put aside. Long they talked, 
and the world spun round imtil the sun was high above the 
horizon. Then Elizabeth rose. 

"Come," she said, "we must go down. Mother will be 
waiting breakfast. She was sleeping when I left." They 
went slowly down the steep hillside together. Presently 
she paused at a rough place in the path, and looked down 
on him, laughing, as he turned to give her his aid. 

"What amuses you?" he said, as he led her carefully 

"You do, Nathanael. You are so changed. It is mag- 

"How changed?" 

"You walk like a king — as if you were superior to 
everything — as if nothing on earth mattered to you — as 
if you could shove aside anjrthing you did n't like, or step 
over it." 

" So I would. There isn't a man on earth I would change 
places with just now." Then she sighed. "Yousee? I told 
you you would some day have to reap your oi«^ sowing." 

"It isn't that." 

"What is it, then?" 

"That you could n't have said — a part of what you have 
just now said — long ago. That you felt my answer would 
have been different unless you had met with success, or 
had something to bring me besides yourself." 


"A man has no business to love a woman — no — I 
mean to ask a woman to love him until he has enough grit 
and energy to make something of himself for her sake." 

"But you might have saved yourself — have saved us 
both — many sad hours." 

"You have been my inspiration, just the same." 

"What if I had married in the meantime — a man of not 
half your worth — *as — " 

"As you might have done?" 


" I am not going to consider such a possibility now. Why 
should I ? It is not to do over again. This is one of the 
cases where experience cannot be the teacher." He laughed 
buoyantly, "I feel like standing on the top of Sugarloaf 
Rock and whooping to the skies." ' 

"How very undignified, Nathanael!" she said gayly. 
"I found a 'Mrs. Grundy' at the hotel, away off here in 
little Avalon." 

"Did you so?" 

"She grumbled because a mother allowed me to chaperon 
her yoimg daughter over to the other side of the island with 
yesterday's picnic party." 

"No doubt she was quite right. We 'U be married right 
away. Then you '11 be able to chaperon girls much older 
than yourself." 

"You haven't asked mother if you can have me yet." 

"Ah! That won't take long. We'll be married to- 
morrow — to-day — " 

"Is that the way you mean to dominate — settle things 
your own way, without even consulting me?" 

"Stand still a moment while we are out of sight from 


the whole world. Tell me you will go home with me as 
my wife, Elizabeth. I mean now, Elizabeth, back to 
Denver." She caught her breath. " Ah, say it," he begged. 
" I 'm a Western man now. The ways of the West suit me. 
We always do the straight, common-sense thing there, and 
snap our fingers at some of the world's ways. Why, is n't 
this sense ? Have n't we waited long enough ? " 

"We'll go down the hill, dear, and talk it over with 

He kissed her, and they took their way down in silence. 
When they reached the little hotel, she left him. "I will 
tell mother and prepare her a little, and we '11 breakfast 
together," she said. "We'll join you soon." 

Then, while Nathanael paced restlessly on the hotel 
verandah she arranged Mrs. Drew's hair as usual, but at 
first was silent, while she brushed the long, silvery strands 
and fastened the bit of lace her mother always wore, with 
dainty touch. Presently she held out her hand. "Look, 
mother," she cried joyously, showing the ring that sparkled 
on her finger. 

"My child! Where did thee get this?" 

"On the top of the mountain, mother." She lifted the 
jewel to her lips, and turned a rose red. But her mother 
regarded her with dismay. 

"Oh, daughter — it was n't — surely it could n't be — " 

"No it wasn't, and it couldn't be — any one but just this 
one who put it here. Guess, mother, who is there in all the 
world thee would be willing I should accept this from?" 
But the mother was silent. Then Elizabeth knelt beside 
her chair. "Put thy hand on my head, mother, love me, 
tell me thee is glad, mother. I can't wait for thee to guess, 


thee is so slow. It was Nathanad. He came to me on the 
moimtain top, just as the sun rose, and all these years, 
since he was a boy, mother, he has been loving me and 
waiting to give me this. He is waiting now to see thee, 
mother. We will breakfast together. Thee must be 

Then her mother kissed her. "I am glad for thy happi- 
ness, Elizabeth. So thy father loved me. Bring me my 
crutch; we will go down to him." 

So they came to Nathanael where he paced up and down, 
and he was satisfied with the mother's welcome. 

"Ah, Nathanael," she said, as he helped her to the table, 
"I have often longed for a son like thee." 

So it was that after much discussion Nathanael had his 
way. He did not have to go back to Denver alone. They 
returned to Los Angeles and there were quietly married. 
Elizabeth was not asked to leave her mother, she could not 
have done that, nor did Mrs. Drew plead to return that sum- 
mer to their New England home. She was quite content. 

One day before they left, as Nathanael was standing in 
his hotel reading-room he saw a man regarding him intently 
through the window. The man was unkempt and haggard, 
and he gazed at Nathanael with hungry eyes, but turned 
when he saw himself noticed, and walked away. His 
face was thin and pallid, his manner that of a fugitive. 
Although Nathanael caught but this momentary glimpse, 
and although he had no time to spare, as they were leaving 
within the hour, he seized his hat and walked rapidly after 
the retreating figure. Something in the man's eyes brought 
his brother before him, his brother from whom he had heard 
nothing for over a year. 


Nathanael saw him glance about him as he turned a comer 
half a block ahead, and hastening his steps arrived at the 
comer in time to see the man disappear through the open 
door of a drinking hall. Then he was half minded to 
turn back. His brother Jack — his handsome, self-reliant 
brother, could never be transformed into a man with such 
a slinking, hangdog gait. If he followed him into the hole, 
what excuse had he to offer, if the man were a stranger — 
as he must be. Yet those eyes ! He changed his hurried 
pace to a saimter and, passing the hall, gazed in at the door 
and saw the fellow standing at the counter waiting for his 
drink. No — that never could be Jack. Just then the 
man tumed, and their eyes met. In an instant Nathanael 
was at his side. 

"Jack ! " he said, in a low voice, and the man's glance fell, 
but his hand instinctively sought Nathanael's. At that 
moment the liquor was set before him, but Nathanael saw 
he had already been drinking. "Leave it, Jack, and come 
with me," he said, tossing the money for it beside the glass, 
and they passed out. As Jack set foot in the street, he 
glanced quickly up and down as if afraid of being watched. 

"Let us find some quiet place where we can have a chat, 
old boy," said Nathanael. " We '11 go in this restaurant and 
have a bite to eat while we talk." 

They entered a small eating room and chose a table in 
a comer by themselves. Nathanael sent for a messenger 
boy, and dispatched him with a line to Elizabeth, telling 
her they would be detained a day longer in Los Angeles. 
Then he tumed again to his brother. "Now, Jack, you Vc 
had trouble; tell me about it. Why haven't you let me 


Jack sat with his head drooped forward and his eyes 
staring at the tablecloth. He cleared his throat and glanced 
uneasily toward the door. " Have they been tracking me ? " 
he asked hoarsely. 

**What do you mean — tracking you?" 

"You ought to know — they don't keep things so quiet in 
Woodbury Center." He took a sip of water, and again 
cleared his throat. " Did n't you know I killed a man before 
I left? Whom did they suspect, if not me?" His eyes 
now sought his brother's face pathetically, and again looked 
past him to the street. 

"Ah," said Nathanael, gently. "I see it all. But lift 
up your head, boy, and be a man once more, for he 's alive 
and well, or was a few weeks ago. Here 's a letter from 

Jack started up and stretched out both hands to his 
brother, then he dropped back in his chair and bowed his 
head in his arms upon the table, and his shoulders shook. 
The long year of agony and remorse had broken his spirit. 
Nathanael waited a few moments, then he touched his 
brother's hair lightly, as a woman would have done. "It 's 
as I tell you. Jack. You have suffered, poor fellow, but you 
can hold your head up like a man again. That 's right — 
look the world squarely in the face, and begin all over." 

The ice crust of reserve that had always been between the 
two brothers melted away, and they talked together freely 
and intimately. 

"I haven't looked a man in the face from that day to 
this without fearing he might be searching for me to pay 
for my crime. Oh, God ! It would be better to die than 
to be haunted by such a memory. That mian as he lay 


there after I struck him! I have seen him all the time. 
I meant to kill him, I had murder in my heart, but after 
the blow was struck, I would have lain there in his place to 
bring him to life again. I covered his face with his coat, so 
the sun should n't shine on it." He hid his face again with 
his hands, and they sat for a moment in silence. 

At last Nathanael spoke quietly. '^ Put it all behind you. 
You have suffered, I know, but it was right you should. 
You have no money?" Jack spread out his hands with 
a gesture of despair. ''But that 's not so bad. I can help 
you out." 

"You have done it before and got nothing in return." 

"I have my brother back, and once again we'll trust. 
Have you anything to do ?" 

"No, naturally. I Ve been wandering about, picking up 
odd jobs in out-of-the-way places — hiding, Nat, hiding." 

"Here comes our lunch. Look me in the face as you used 
to do. The fear is gone, and you '11 go back with me — 
or rather, before me, for I must stop on the way. I can send 
you on, and the company will give you work." 

Jack's face flushed. " If I go on there, I shall in reality be 
indebted to him — to the man I struck ? " 

"Yes," said Nathanael, impellingly, "but you must accept 
that. You can't afford to let pride stand in yoiir way 

'*I have suffered, and have repented, but he — he did 
me a wrong, and I have n't forgotten." 

"I think you mistake there." 

"You don't imderstand." 

"I think I do." 

"He has told you?" 


" He made no complaint of you to any living being. Ho^ 
could I have been ignorant of it otherwise?" 

Jack looked down and sullenly cut at his steak. "He 
knows he wronged me," he said. "You are married to the 
girl you have loved all your life. I saw you together yester- 
day. You looked happy, and so did she. I went by the 
hotel again to-day, hoping to get another glimpse of you. 
See what he did for me. I am an outcast. I have com- 
mitted a crime, and my life is broken." 

"You are young and have your life still before you. As to 
whether you were wronged or not, leave it for time to decide. 
You will be on your feet again soon with us — " 

"And then I '11 meet him as a man should, and settle the 
matter. Has he married her?" Jact spoke huskily, and 
leaned forward, looking eagerly in his brother's face. 


"Then I '11 go with you." 

joyful's new home 

Behold, in the rose of the dawn, Love, 
In the round, red disk of the siin, Love, 
I tee thee before me, my one Love, 
I see thee when daylight is gone, dear. 
In the bending bow of the moon, dear 
That riseth faint and soon, dear — 
In the lingering star at its tip, near 
Even as lip to lip, dear. 
From dawning to dusk my heart holds thee, 
From dusk to the dawning enfolds thee, 

Turn hither thy feet for thou knowest it, sweet. 

As the I St of June drew near, Mark Thorn grew more 
eager and restless. He could not let Joj^ul sail away from 
him, and went again to Boston and followed the dew Tom 
Bings had given him, only to learn that the family had 
already gone to New York, and were to sail on a Cunard 
steamship. In haste he returned and made preparations 
for departure. The sittings for Hester Prynne were finished, 
and he had begun one or two other subjects, using Marie 
Vaile still as his model. Now he told her he must stop work 
for a time and take a vacation. 

Two or three days were yet to elapse before the sailing 
of the steamer on which he foimd the Burt family registered, 
and these he passed in jubilant anticipation, working in his 
studio until the last hour. 

The day before he left he had been selecting some of his 



studies and placing them in such order that at any time he 
could send for them, and among others he took out the un- 
finished Undine. This he sat long before, while he lived 
over again the moments he had passed with Jo3^ul, and as 
he sat thus absorbed in that summer dream, Marie Vaile 
entered and stood beside him, unheeded. When she spoke 
to him, he started, almost as if he were guilty of some secret 
he wished to keep hidden, and turned the picture to the wall. 

" Oh, Mr. Thorn, don't put it away. May I not see it ? " 

"Indeed, yes, if you wish," he said. "It is an imfinished 
thing, as you see.*' He placed it before her and gave her 
his seat, while he stood beside her. He wondered if she 
would recognize the likeness to the child she had once so 
generously befriended, but he was little prepared for the 
depth of her passion. She was silent. Then he placed 
before her the crayon sketch he had begun in the Somers' 
boarding house, and which he had since finished with exceed- 
ing care. This he had always kept for himseK alone, and 
Marie's eyes were the first he had ever allowed the privilege 
of resting on it. 

"This is a better likeness, and more finished," he said. 
Still she was silent, as though stimned. Suddenly she rose 
and turned on him like a tigress. He was amazed at her 

"You — you !" she cried, seizing him by the arms. "It 
was you who took her away. Tell me, where have you 
hidden her, where are you keeping her ? I want her. I will 
have her. I say I will know — You shall not have her — 
no man shall see her — I want her. Tell me." As suddenly 
she released him, pushing him violently from her. Her 
beautiful lips curled contemptuously, and her eyes flashed 


defiance in his. '^I had ahnost persuaded myself there 
was one good man on earth, who could be trusted, and I 
came back to ask your help — to tell you all about it ^- 
where she came to me — all. I thought that cat had her 
concealed, but it was you — you who took her away and 
hid her." She sank again into the chair and covered her 
face, weeping passionately. 

Mark looked down at her, filled with tenderness and sym- 
pathy. He was so overjoyed at the thought of soon having 
Joyful near him that he could not resent her words, and he 
sat near her and talked to her quietly until her passion had 
somewhat subsided. Then he told her of his first meeting 
with Joyful, and of his love for the chUd, and his struggle 
with himself. He went on and told her how he had foimd 
her the second time, and what he had done, and how he 
had lost her, and had sought for her week after week, not 
wishing to make his search known so as to trouble her. He 
told of his sorrow and chagrin when the rude awakening 
came to Joyful from which he would have saved her forever, 
and at last he told her how he hoped he had found her again, 
and had planned to sail away in the same boat with her. 

As Mark told his tale, gradually Marie's sobs ceased, and 
at last she lifted her head and looked at him, listening eagerly. 
Her lips were feverish and her cheeks flushed, and her fingers 
trembled as she pushed back the heavy hair from her brow. 
Her hands seemed to have grown thinner and more trans- 
parent in the four months since she had been his model, and 
he was filled with compassion as he watched^er. 

For a time after he had finished speaking she sat with her 
hands tightly closed in her lap, silent, and her face assumed 
the hard expression he had sometimes seen her wear. Once 


she moistened her lips and essayed to speak, but uttered 
no somid. He waited quietly, not interrupting her mood, 
and at last she spoke out of the pain in her heart, so low he 
could scarcely understand her words. 

"You are a good man," she said coldly, as if her sense of 
justice forced the admission from her. " Perhaps you will 
forgive me for misjudging you. You will take her away 
from me forever. K you ever return with her, I shall not 
see her, for I shall be dead. I would have saved her from 
the knowledge of — also, if only I could have fotmd her, 
but now it would be too late. K ever she sees me again, she 
will hate me for what I have been. Those who are so 
terribly good always do." 

"You are mistaken. Miss Vaile. She understands well 
that you were generously protecting her. If you could 
have seen her as I saw her, weeping and pleading to stay with 
you — to take you with her — you would imderstand, 
but — but — that, as you know, was impossible." 

"Yes, I know," she replied, scarcely above a whisper, her 
lips only forming the words, and Mark continued. 

"I promised her I would find you, but when I returned 
you had gone, and she had lost herself from me, and I could 
not have told her about you had I had anything to tell. 
No doubt she distrusts me still, but when I have won her I 
will bring her back, and you will find her loving and full of 
gratitude to you. Believe me. Miss Vaile." 

But he could not dispel her sadness. " No, I shall be dead. 
I shall have nothing to live for, to make me care to live. 
I thought if I could have her, I — I would have sufficient 
incentive to — to — " 

"I understand, Marie; I understand." 


''I thought I could atone through her — I could keep her 
with me, always safe and happy." 

" But what could you do ? " 

The marble of her brow became crimson, and then paled. 
''You have a right to ask. I have a little money, Mr. 
Thorn, left me by my father. They all thought me dead, 
only my father. He would not believe it, and charged them 
never to give up the search imtil I was foxmd, and a few 
months ago they f oimd me. It is n't much, but it would 
almost keep us, and for the rest — but I give up. It is 
of no use to struggle now." She rose and walked toward 
the door. Mark followed her, expostulating — trying to 
draw her out of her deep despondency. 

"When I return I will need you again. Miss Vaile. Let 
me keep my promise to Joyful. I told her I would bring 
her word of you. Here, this is my address in Paris ; write 
me there, and when I have married Jojrful — " 

"You speak very confidently, Mr. Thorn." Marie turned 
on him with the ghost of a smile about her lips. "Sinless 
women are hard. It is we who have suffered who under- 
stand — who can be tender. You may not be able to win 
her, for distrust is a very devil in a woman's heart." 

"Ah, but I will win her," he said quietly. "Sooner or 
later, I wiU." 

"You caimot know what your taking her away from me 
means to me — and yet I hope you may. I hope she will 
understand — sometimes happiness is just within our reach, 
and we never know it — and live on without it. I suppose 
— I feel — that you are a good man. — They are rare. 
Good-bye." She passed out, but still he followed her, and 
thrust the card with his address in her hand. 


"Write to me. Promise me you wfll write to me there, 
for Joyful's sake." 

"If it is possible — if — I will," she said. 

The next day Mark sailed. Glad at heart, jubilant, he 
paced the deck, waiting for a sight of JoyfuFs face. She 
must surely be there, somewhere among the crowd throng- 
ing that great palace of the ocean, for there were the names 
on the steamer's passenger list in his hand — Mr. George 
Burt, wife, three children, and governess. He waited 
patiently all the first afternoon, but saw no one whom he 
thought could be of the family. Indeed, but few children 
were to be seen, and they were not of the ages of those he 
had seen with Joyivl on that spring day. The next morn- 
ing Mark saw a golden-haired Uttle boy playing about the 
ladies' saloon, and ventured to make friends with him ; but 
when he asked his name, the prompt reply was "Willie 
Jones, but you must call me Will. " Alas ! He was the only 
small boy on the ship. Then Mark interrogated the 
captain, and learned, to his chagrin that, owing to the sud- 
den illness of their little son, Mr. and Mrs. Burt had given 
up their passage only an hour before the boat left the harbor, 
and returned to Boston. 

Surely the fates were against him. The pilot boat had 
gone back, and there was no chance of his return imtil the 
steamer arrived in port ; moreover, he had business which 
would take him to Paris, possibly to Italy — a commission 
to select certain paintings for a public gallery in a Western 
town. Rashly he had promised to do this, and now felt 
under obligations to the committee who had chosen him 
their agent. Tom between anxiety and duty, his restless- 
ness knew no bounds. He became moody, and appeared 


to his fellow passengers morose, to such an extent that he 
was avoided as one who might prove to be anything but a 
pleasant companion. 

At last he decided to write to Marie Vaile, and beg her 
to find Joyful for him, telling her he would defray the ex- 
penses, and that none must be spared. He gave her the 
address of the house near Boston, where he had reason to 
believe she might be. He told her to go to Tom Bings, to 
make friends with his wife — to do anything that would 
lead her to Joyful. This letter he dispatched in port, and 
then set himself with all speed to fill his commission, which 
fiurnished him with occupation that might have been pleas- 
antly distracting, had it not been for the frequent delays 
he was subjected to by the dealers. 

During the months that had elapsed since Joj^ul Heath- 
erby wrote the tear-blurred letter which had become 
ragged and frayed in Mark's breast pocket, she had been 
filling a difficult position bravely. She had been learning 
the ways of the world, that is to say, and had bowed her 
yoxmg head to many a sore trial. 

Mrs. George Starr Burt was a handsome woman, and wise 
in her own conceit. She felt that there was no height to 
which she was not entitled to climb in the social world, 
which world, in conservative Boston, was slow in taking 
her to its bosom, mainly for the reason that the members 
of the highest circle, or of any other, for the matter of that, 
knew nothing of her antecedents. She had been sent to the 
city from a small Western town to be cultiured and finished, 
and while there had met and married a man several years 
her senior, whom her father had generously estabUshed in 
a business which, without such aid, stood on the edge of 



failure, and had since that time been rapidly amassing a 

Now Mrs. Burt felt that, with a fine physique and all the 
culture to be had for money, and wealth to command, she 
ought to be gladly welcomed and placed in any position to 
which she might aspire ; hence she shook out her beautiful 
plumage and fluttered about to sun herself in the light of the 
public gaze, but foimd it decidedly cold. She made occa- 
sional flights in the Delphic groves where the tree of knowl- 
edge is supposed to flourish best — she preened her feathers 
at the feet of celebrities — she joined classes for the study 
of Dante in the Italian, or for peering microscopically into 
the mysteries of Browning and Walt Whitman. Not that 
she cared in the least what their lines might mean, but that 
they were to her lines of introduction to the joys of social 

Mrs. Burt was a determined woman. What she did not 
have she seemed to have, and if rebuffs were given her, 
she did not know it, or the rest of the world did not know 
she knew it. For several years she had been slowly working 
her way toward the position she desired to occupy, but the 
way was long, and at last she resolved to make a few bold 
strokes to win. Why should she wait until she was old and 
gray? Younger women than she were admired and de- 
ferred to — their positions unquestioned and secure, why 
should not hers be ? Was it her quiet, absorbed husband 
who stood in the path ? Must she always go about alone 
and work her way unaided, while he was never to be seen 
except in his oflSce or at his own table? Other women's 
husbands went out with them, semi-occasionally, at least. 
Other men could hold their own in conversation — some of 


them were even brilliant, and their wives were sought after 
for their sakes — they were connoisseurs of wines — they 
had experiences to relate and could please women — they 
could cover deficiencies and say the right thing at the right 

George Burt could do none of these things. Did he hap- 
pen to be caught at an imwary moment and allow his wife 
to accept for him an invitation to dine, he was silent for the 
most part and monosyllabic between courses, and the lady 
at his side must needs support the conversation for two. 
He always felt his wife's eyes on him, and the consciousness 
of her dissatisfaction permeated his behavior. As the genie 
who kept her purse filled with gold, he was useful to her, 
but beyond this he was a drag on her progress, to be apolo- 
gized for and held in the backgroimd to serve in silence. 

Before Mrs. Burt had acquired an establishment, she had 
busied herself in making a wide circle of acquaintances 
whom she called friends. She was willing to ride any hobby 
to the death which would carry her up the hill she was eager 
to climb, hence she moimted many and rode them bravely 
until they collapsed imder her weight, leaving her on the 
road, far short of the goal. She began in a modest way 
with her church, and rode the missionary hobby in the ex- 
cellent company of mature women whose social position 
had been an established fact from their cradles; but for 
some reason invitations to missionary teas did not lead 
gradually to invitations to bridge whist and full-dress affairs. 
She progressed through all the gradations of women's 
activities, from severest forms of self-culture to public 
charities, imtil at last her patient husband could give her 
an elegant mansion in an elegant quarter, with an elegant 


retinue of servants in elegant livery, when she began to ride 
in elegant equipages with elegant companions who were 
willing to be carried about. 

It was at this timie that Mrs. George Starr Burt decided 
she must have a French governess for the three children 
who had come to her very quietly and had, thus far, not been 
greatly in her way, being so small as to be entirely under 
the care of a nurse. Now Mrs. Burt, although she had 
much means at her disposal, was inclined to be extremely 
thrifty withal, and economical in small things. Albeit 
a large and imposing woman, who appeared to do things 
in a large way, her servants knew they could not expect 
large wages, and they also knew that their full quota of 
labor would be exacted from them to the smallest detail. 
While she was lavish in her expenditure for the garniture 
of the bodies of her three babes, she was cautious when it 
came to laying out money on their mental furnishing; 
hence, in her search for a French governess, she was anxious 
to find one who could at the same time save the expense of 
an extra maid, and whose expectations in the way of salary 
would be, to say the least, modest. Thus when the janitor's 
wife learned that the elegant Mrs. George Starr Burt wished 
for a French governess, and brought Joyful into her presence, 
that astute woman quickly perceived her opportunity to 
obtain much for little. 

Joyful's inexperience, and the fact that she was not bom 
in France (a fact greatly to her disadvantage) made it quite 
a charity, indeed, to give her the position at all, no matter 
how small the stipend. That her name was Antoinette, 
however, was forttmate. Mademoiselle Antoinette sounded 
well, and, suitably gowned, she would give quite the air Mrs. 


Bart desired as she drove about with the chfldren, or brought 
them to the parlor to be noticed and petted by injudicious 
callers. Thus was Joyful installed a member of the Burt 
household. She became Mam'selle Antoinette, and was 
enjoined to speak nothing but French to the children. Her 
salary was given her at first in the form of gowns and hats, 
such as Mrs. Burt thought to be suitable for a French 
governess, and to all appearances her only duties consisted 
in driving with the little ones, accompanying them as they 
strolled in the park, taking them to dancing school and 
children's parties, and submitting with patience to their 
selfish whims and caprices ; but with all this, duties were 
imposed on her which should rightly have been performed 
by an imderservant, and she was frequently pressed into 
service as lady's maid for Mrs. Burt, who considered that, 
since Joyful's duties were so light, she might just as well 
learn to wait on her, and keep her dresses in order. 

Many a night after the children were asleep and her 
legitimate tasks were done, and she should have had the 
hours to herself, she might be foxmd in the laimdry sorting 
and folding garments, pressing filmy ruffles and picking out 
the laces that adom^ elaborate frocks, or removing grass 
stains from small trousers, or perhaps she would be ironing 
Mrs. Burt's fine handkerchiefs, or mending her husband's 
socks and underwear. In " Mam'selle's" workbasket 
might be foxmd Mrs. Burt's silken hose, placed there as 
a compliment to ''Mam'selle's" handiwork; or indeed, 
table napery to be darned. Thus were her grandmother's 
lessons in old-fashioned needlework brought into daily use, 
and when seamstresses were in the house making the chil- 
dren's clothing, many an hour which should have been her 


own was spent by Joyful in making buttonholes or hem- 
stitching ruffles. 

There were regular hours to be spent in the schoolroom, 
of course, but they were constantly interrupted or shortened 
that Joyful might have time for these tasks. She never had 
a half hour for quiet reading, and the dreams of knights and 
ladies became visions of her childhood, dim and far away. 

Sometimes in the dead of night she awoke and longed 
for the sea, and fancied she heard its monotonous wave 
beats on the shore when a midnight car rumbled in the 
distance. Often her pillow was wet with her tears when the 
long wakeful hours pressed on her the memory of all she had 
lost, and she himgered for a little love, for the sight of the 
dear old grandfather's wrinkled face, or the sound of her 
grandmother's voice. Often she dreamed she was seated 
at Elizabeth Drew's knee practicing her guitar, and awoke 
with a sense of loneliness like a cold hand over her heart. 
Sometimes, in the darkness, she saw Mark Thorn as he had 
first appeared to her, standing in the wagon way through 
the woods, or as he lay with his bandages about him in her 
grandmother's best chamber — bis eyes, burning under his 
heavy brows, fixed on her, his dark hair matted above his 
white forehead, and his thin, pale, unshaven face looking 
ghostly after his hurt. She saw him as he was in each hour 
she had spent in his presence — in the boat, busied with his 
sketchbook and pencil — in Elizabeth's home, painting 
her "Ladye Faire" — in the wood under the branching 
beech tree with patches of sunlight dancing over him. The 
very tones of his voice seemed still to vibrate in her ears, 
even to qxiiver in her heart — his gentleness when he asked 
her concerning her trouble — every word he had said, and 


she would turn her face to the wall and sob silently and in 
shame, that she could not forget. Must she always remem- 
ber and feel him near her ? Why must his words repeat 
themselves over and over ? "Again you are right, Miss Joy- 
ful," and why should her heart always ache with the memory 
of them ? Must she always long thus to see him, and hear 
him speak to her again ? Then would come the thought 
of that night when he had taken her away from that strange 
and horrible place, and she would writhe in an agony of 
shame and sorrow. Ah, it was a sin to so hold him always 
in her heart. What had Mrs. Bings told her? Who was 
he ? A wandering artist, a man who was a law unto himself 
— who had no moral sense — who had deceived her and 
who would continue to deceive her as long as she had any- 
thing to do with him — whose "power was the serpent's'* 
and whose influence was to destroy, and yet — and yet — 
how could it all be ? Oh, those monsters to fight ! Could 
he, with whom she had talked about them, be only one of 
them, and had he thus begun his betrayal of her confidence ? 
How could it all be when her grandmother had received him 
into her home and cared for him like a son, and Mrs. Drew 
and Elizabeth had liked him — and yet — there had been 
strange reports of him which had somehow spread abroad 
from the house of Somers. Why had he been attacked? 
What had he done? Was it something dishonorable that 
he could not explain ? So she questioned and answered with 
herself, and questioned again. 

Why should Mrs. Bings so solemnly warn her that he 
was a sinful man, from the heart out ? It did not show in 
his face nor in his words — but Mrs. Bings had told her 
that was something men learned who lived in the world to 


which he belonged — they learned to cover the evil in their 
hearts so cleverly that none could see it Mrs. Bings had 
shuddered to think what would have been Joyful's fate had 
she not hidden her away in a safe place, and Joyful was 
truly grateful to that good woman for her interest and 
kindness, and for placing her in the way of independence. 
Yet, even if it were a sin not to do so, she could not follow 
her advice and hate Mark Thorn — even if he were so bady 
she could not — she must just hide from him imtil she ceased 
to long to see him. She must hide. So kindly and gently 
he had comforted and helped her, how could she forget ! 

These lonely midnight hours were the only moments Joy- 
ful ever had to herself, when the fair little boy was sleeping 
in his small bed near hers, and the two little girls had ceased 
to fret at and torment each other while slumbering in the 
nursery, which opened oflF f rom Joyful's room. She did not 
even have the night to herself, for they were always with her. 
Fortunately, she had a natural love for children, and much 
tact, and it was not long before she had so won these three 
lawless little beings, whom she found thrown entirely in her 
care, as to hold them usually under control. 

The two little girls became rivals for her affection, and 
crowded and pushed each other about for the seat nearest her, 
for the first kiss in the morning, and the last embrace at night, 
until she foimd it necessary to bestow her favors alternately, 
treating each with perfect fairness. But for the little boy„ 
who was yoimger and frailer than his sisters, she cherished 
a peculiar fondness. He was sensitive and gentle, clinging^ 
to her hand when they walked out, and when he played by 
her side his eyes constantly sought her responsive glance-* 
He loved to have her sing to him, to hold her guitar and 


gently pick the strings. This was his greatest delight, his 
comfort after bumps, his reward for taking his medicine, 
or for bravely eating his porridge at breakfast, a food his 
mother insisted on giving him, and which the poor child 

The children saw little of their mother, and less of their 
father, except on Sundays, when he usually took them out 
in the moroiag. They had their dinner with their parents 
on that day, and it was then only that Mr. Burt ever saw 
Joyful, or even awakened to a knowledge of her existence as 
a member of his household. But gradually he became aware 
that his children were becoming attractive — that there 
was less wrangling and noise, and occasionally, instead of 
going down to his office and sitting there, as being more at 
home than in his own house of a Sunday afternoon, he 
dropped into the nursery and spent the hours with his little 
son in a pleasant contentment new to him. He would lie 
on the floor watching Harry build cars and block railway 
stations, giving him a helping hand now and then, and 
listening to Joyful read Hans Andersen's " Fairy Tales " to 
the little girls. 

It was about this time that Mrs. Btu-t decided she must 
make a few bold strokes for position. She filled her house 
with guests. Occasionally she would exploit an artist or 
musician who was willing to be taken up, at her dinners and 
musicales. She gave Browning afternoons and Emerson 
breakfasts for the literary set, and theater parties and late 
suppers for the gayer crowd. Since it was difficult to drag 
her husband into these social f imctions, she was frequently 
obliged to do without his presence entirely, substituting 
therefor the services of a tame cat — one of those interesting 


beings whose sex is detennined by their costume, and who 
poses and purrs contentedly at a married woman's elbow, 
under the stroke of her caressing hand. 

On these occasions, Joyful was pressed into constant 
service. She was always tastefully dressed and expected 
to be present whenever there was any demand made for the 
children. Although the labor of a servant was exacted from 
her, that fact was never admitted, and she was always known 
among guests and acquaintances as ** Mam'selle Antoinette.'' 
Thus the days and weeks passed until the time when Mrs. 
Burt decided that the family must make a trip abroad. 
Everyone else went abroad, and she imagined that aftei 
a year spent on the continent, she would be able to return 
and begin over again at the point she was at present unable 
to reach. 



" Awake, aspire 
To immortality ; heed not the lyre 
Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-aong ; 
But in the stillness of the summer calm, 
TVemble for what is Godlike in thy being. 
Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm 
Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing.'' 

— George MacDonald, LLJ>. 

Being thwarted in her purpose by the iUness of her little 
son, Mrs. Burt decided one course only was left her. She 
would not open her house, but take a cottage at Newport 
for the season. There she could gather people about her 
and perhaps accomplish more than her other plan would 
secure for her. While arrangements were being made for 
this change, they went to a hotel, with the sick child imder 
Joyful's care, but the family physician promptly inter- 
fered, and insisted on having Harry removed to a hospital 
where he could have scientific nursing and perfect quiet. 
But even so, the little fellow grew rapidly worse. His 
trouble was an obscure one, seemingly an affection of the 
brain, and after his removal he was never calm a moment, 
but wept and called continually for Mam'selle Antoinette, 
until at last the physician sent for her, and a place was pro- 
vided where she could be near him night and day. With 
the tyranny of love he clung to her, giving her no rest. His 
great eyes followed her himgrily when she went out, and 



watched unceasingly for her return. When she was with 
him, his mind seemed at peace, and he rested coQtentedly, 
— a condition which brought rapid improvement ; but when 
she was called away by Mrs. Burt for other affairs, the child 
drooped and failed, apparently losing all he had gained. 

"If you wish yoxw child to recover/' said the physician 
to Mrs. Burt one day, "I would advise you to allow Made- 
moiselle to remain with him. Don't take her away for any- 
thing, except with my consent." 

"Oh, Doctor," wailed that lady, "everything — every- 
thing shall be done for Harry that money can do." 

"But my dear Madam, it is not a question of money. 
He needs the alchemy — of a loving heart. His trouble is 
of the brain, and he must suffer no longing, no irritation. 
Grant him anything he desires. If it is Mademoiselle, — 
very simple, — let him have her." 

"Of course, yet she has duties here, also. The little girls 
must not be neglected, you know, and we go to Newport 
just as soon as Harry is well enough to be moved." 

"Oh, you do!" exclaimed the doctor, with some relief. 
"Well, why not go without waiting? Leave him where he 
is and allow Mademoiselle to remain with him." 

"Oh, Doctor — you know a mother's heart." 

"Yes — I know," he said, coldly. 

"And here I ata ready to go to him at any time." 

"Of course, of course; and when he demands you, go. 
He 's a delicate instrument, delicately stnmg. Make the 
tension too great, and he is gone. Let him have what he 
craves ; give him his heart's content. Unless he calls for 
you, the child will be just as well off if the family is in 
Newport instead of here." 


" That girl seems to have bewitched him/' said the mothtf , 

'^ Best thing for him. Let him have her undisturbed, and 
you go to Newport, and when he is well enough, take him 
out there for change of air." 

Having the doctor's advice to sustain her, Mrs. Burt, the 
little girls, and a retinue of servants went to the cottage at 
Newport, the father remaining at the hotel and burying him- 
self in his business, more silent and taciturn than ever. 
Sometimes he would go to his family for a Simday, but 
usually in his vacant hours he haimted the hospital where 
his little boy lay. He brought him flowers and toys, and 
often was rewarded by the sight of the frail child's pleasure, 
as the little fellow would smile up at him and let his small 
hand lie passive in his father's large one. These were the 
only moments when Joyful was allowed to escape for a short 
walk in the air. 

"It is contrary to all rule to have an untrained girl, an 
outsider, here doing these things," said the head nurse to 
the doctor, one day. " It 's my opinion that child should 
be made to obey." 

" State your case, state your case," said the doctor, curtly. 
"What harm is being done?" 

"Only the breaking of the rules of the hospital." 

" It 's a question of the boy's life or your rules, hey ? Save 
the child and damn the rules, then." 

"Very well, sir," said the nurse, tinning away. 

Harry would take his food from no one else. If Joyful 
were not there, he would not eat. No other hand might 
bathe his fevered limbs. She must not leave his rck)m at 
night. If one of the nurses took the cot at his side during 


his sleep, to give Jaybsl a chance for an uninterrupted rest, 
he would waken, and his screams, as if of fright, would soon 
bring her back to him. Thus it came about that only when 
he lay with his hand in his father's, could she have any 
change. Mr. Burt noticed at last that Joyful was growing 
paler and thinner. 

"How much are you getting for all this?" he asked 
abruptly one day, as he looked in her weary eyes. 

"I have my salary," she replied, in some surprise. 

"Yes, yes. But how much ?" 

"I have fifteen dollars a month." 

" What ?" he said, rising suddenly, and towering over her. 

"And Mrs. Burt has given me help about my clothing," 
she continued. "I haven't had to pay so much for it as 
if — " but he waited to heaf no more, and stamped out of 
the room with a muttered oath. 

"Papa, you didn't say good-bye to me," wailed Harry. 

He returned quickly to the boy's bedside and bent ten- 
derly over him. 

"Good-bye, Harry, boy. You must get well, so father 
won't have to say good-bye. Father wants you to grow 
up to be a man and help him." 

"Perhaps I will," said the child, holding his father's 
bearded face close to his cheek. Then he released him and 
went off into one of his sudden sleeps. His father stood 
a few moments sadly looking down on him; then turning to 
Joyful he said : — 

"You are being worn out. We must do something about 

"Oh, no. Harry is all I have to love now, Mr. Biurt I 
would love him well again if I could. I am glad, glad he 


i^ants me." Tliey spoke in low tones, and Mr. Burt tip- 
toed softly away. The next day Joyful received a check 
from him for a hundred dollars. ^'Put it away. You may 
need it sometime/' he said in his note. 

These early weeks of summer dragged slowly, until at last 
definite improvement in Harry's condition began, which 
showed first in a request to see his little sisters, and later he 
was removed to the sea, and a quiet comer of the cottage 
was devoted to him and Joyful, after which for a time his 
improvement became more rapid. Yet when he should 
have been able to run about and play in the sand with the 
rest, he seemed to have lost the full control of his little limbs, 
and had to be carried in the arms, or wheeled in his chair. 
Then Mr. Burt gave up all work in town, and devoted his 
time entirely to his little son, and then the roses came 
faintly back into Joyful's cheeks. 

During these days there were gay doings in the Burt cot- 
tage at Newport. Mrs. Burt felt that at last she had gained 
a point, and become the leader of a set. She had given up 
the intellectual cult, and her intimates were among the 
gayest frequenters of the gay resort. Her wines were of the 
best, and the conventional restraints of Boston were thrown 
off. Young men haimted her house and hovered about her 
sideboard ; night was turned into day, and high play at cards 
was the rule ; merriment reigned supreme, and everything 
was free. There excursions were planned and theatricals re- 
hearsed. In these last, Joyf ul's services were often required 
to help fashion costumes or arrange scenes. She was the 
more helpful for her wide reading of romance and active 
imagination. Had she not been Uving pla3rs all her life 
until during the last year ? Sometimes she was given a part, 


when needed to help out, and this she greatly enjoyed. 
Soon she began to be noticed by the frequenters of the house, 
who felt the charm of her bright, innocent quaintness, as of 
a rare wild flower in their midst, and it pleased them to test 
her originality, until she came to be in constant demand, 
and it was "Mademoiselle Antoinette" here and "Made- 
moiselle Antoinette" there. Sometimes the wajrs and 
manners of these people astonished her greatly, and often, 
utterly weary of everything, she slipped away from them 
all to Harry's room and hid her head in sadness, longing 
for her old home and the old simple life and love, by the 

Oh, how she longed to see EUzabeth, and to hear the 
sweet, high-bred voice of Mrs. Drew ! One day a bright 
idea struck her. She wrote to the little post-oflBice at 
Woodbury Center, asking if there were any letters for her. 
Why had she never thought of that before ? Letters from 
Elizabeth, three of them, came to light, each succeeding 
letter more anxious than the one preceding and the last 
telling of her marriage and happiness, and ending: "Now, 
Joyful, neglect me no longer. I am troubled that I do not 
hear from you. Whatever you are doing, or wherever you 
are, if this reaches you, I am sure you will write to your old 
friend." Then Joyivl wrote for the first time, giving the 
details of the loss of her grandparents, and saying simply 
that as she knew she could not remain alone in the little 
home, with no means of support, she was now living with 
a Boston family, and had the care of their little son who was 
very ill. She gave Elizabeth the address at Newport, and 
this was sent in Nathanael's next letter to Mark Thorn, and 
followed him from New York to Paris, then to Rome, then 


to Florence, and from there back to Rome, uiitil it was many 
weeks old before he received it. 

Gladly would Mark have taken the earliest steamer for 
home, but he was delayed most vezatiously, having to go 
to Paris again, and then to London before all his commissions 
were satisfactorily filled. Five long weeks had elapsed 
since he had heard from Marie Vaile, and then only that 
the Burts were not in Boston. At a venture he wrote her 
again, addressing her as before, but not knowing whether 
her restless spirit had taken her elsewhere. He knew of no 
one but Marie to whom to trust the search without sub- 
jecting Joyful to impleasant consequences, but he deter- 
mined to do nothing after his return until he had found 

In the meantime, summer waned, and Harry had so far 
recovered that the plan to go abroad was again broached, 
and their return to Boston hastened on that account ; but 
no sooner were they at home than his condition again began 
to cause anxiety. One evening as he lay in Joyful's arms 
listening for the hundredth time to the story of '^ Kay and 
littie Cerda, and the Snow Queen," he lifted his head from 
her shoulder and looked steadfastiy in her eyes. 

"Mam'selle Antoinette, do people ever get slivers of 
that glass in their eyes, really and truly?" he asked. 
"Did mamma ever?" 

'' It is not really a sliver of glass, Harry. It means some- 
thing else." 

"What does it mean ?" 

"It means something that gets in their hearts, making 
them hard and cold, caring only for themselves." 

"What does mamma care most for in her heart ?" 


Joyful drew him closer in her arms. '^I dcHi't know, 
Harry dear; let 's finish the story now, shall we ?" 

He cuddled down and was quiet, but presently he spoke 
again, dreamily. ''I know what papa loves most in his 
heart. He loves money best of all, and me next. Does n't 

"Oh, Harry, Harry, darling! He loves you more, far 
more than his money." 

"But he spends all his time getting money, and only sees 
me a little." 

"The money is all for you and your little sisters, Harry; 
and it is your father's work to get it. Men must attend 
to their work, but he would give all his money in a minute 
if it would only make his little boy well again." 

"Yes. When will he come? My hands are cold. I 
want him to hold them." 

Theii Joyful called his small sister Cora May from the 
adjoining room. "Gro tell your father Harry wishes to 
see him, dear. He must be at home by this time." 

"Sing," he murmured, laying his head heavily on her 
shoulder again, and Joytvl sang softly Schubert's air of 
"The Wanderer," while she rocked him in her arms and 
thought of Elizabeth. Presently Mr. Burt entered and 
stood looking down at them. He gently took Harry's 
hand. The child's fingers were cold and did not close 
around his own as usual. Suddenly he stooped and gently 
lifted his boy in his arms and held him clasped to his breast. 
"My God!" he whispered. The child slowly opened his 
eyes and looked in his father's face, drew a long, sighing 
breath as of contentment, and was gone. 

After that moment came a sudden and terrible reaction 


for Joyful. Her strength had been so long taxed to the 
uttermost, under conditions unnatural to her, that she 
suffered from a species of nervous collapse, which took a 
morbid turn, partly induced by the reproaches of Harry's 
mother. Why had she not mentioned more particularly 
Harry's condition so that measures might have been taken 
to save him? Why had she been silent? No doubt he 
would be living now and on the road to complete recovery 
had some prompt remedy been administered. It was 
imdoubtedly the crisis he was passing through, and would 
have been the turning point for the better had something 
only been done at the moment. Mam'selle, having been 
with him all the time, should have been able to judge by 
his symptoms what his condition was, but to sit and calmly 
let him die in her arms — ^what was she thinking of ! All 
these and many more bitter complaints reached her ears, 
but still Mrs. Burt had no idea of allowing her to go when 
she asked to be released from her position, and so Joy- 
ful stayed on, drooping from day to day, until at last 
the physician, attending one of the little girls for some 
slight ailment, noticed her condition, and called Mrs. 
Burt's attention to it. He ordered peremptorily that she 
be taken to the hospital for restoration, where Harry had 

" She 'U be all right in a few weeks, if you do as I say. If 
not, she'U die," he said roughly. ''Take your choice." 

Thus it came about that while the simmier still lingered 
into the early fall and the days were oppressive with heat, 
Joyful was taken to the same cool white room where Harry 
had been so carefully tended by her, and there was put to 
bed and gently nursed, even as he had been. 


''You have something on your mind/' the doctor said to 
her abruptly one day. " What is it ? A lover ? " 

"Oh, no, Doctor." She looked steadily in his eyes as 
they keenly searched her face, but she grew a shade paler. 

"Out with it, out with it, come," he said, as he drew a 
chair near the bed. 

"I can't, Doctor; I haven't anything to out with." She 
smiled wanly. "I had one lover once, but I did not love 
him. He was not a true knight, only a boy grown up." 

"Not a true knight ? What do you mean ?" 

A little fluttering sigh escaped her, and closing her eyes 
she placed her folded hands under her cheek. "Nothing 
but dreams, Doctor. I used to read about the knights 
and ladies of the olden days, and I used to think I would 
sometime have a lover, and would love him, a true knight, 
who would achieve some great, good thing." She opened 
her eyes again and gazed in his face, which had grown very 
kindly and tender. "Of course that was very long ago. 
I understand many things now that I did n't know then. I 
have grown old since that time." 

"Tut, tut, tut," he laughed loudly. 

" Yes, it is true. I have lived so much in so short a while." 

"Tell me," he said kindly, "all you have done since you 
left your home. Why did you leave it? Where did you 

" I lost my grandparents, and I had to go to — earn my 
living. Oh, I can't talk about it now, Doctor." 

"You can't tell me anything ?" he said, still more gently. 
"You see. Mademoiselle Antoinette, if there is, or has been, 
anything troubling you, and I can remove the cause, you 
will get well much faster. You are young and ought to be 


gay and light-hearted. A sad heart saps the vitality, or a 
heart with an unsatisfied hunger in it." 

"Doctor, tell me truly, was it my fault Harry died? I 
would rather have died myself. I had no one else to love> 
and — now I have no one at all." 

"Thunder, no!" The doctor rose, and paced angrily 
up and down the room. "He couldn't have lived. No 
power on earth could have saved him. It was a blessing he 
died when he did, poor little chap." He sat beside her 
again, and took one hand from beneath her cheek and held 
it, patting it softly. " I have a little girl at home just about 
yotir age, but she 's a gay one. Why did you ask that 
question. Mademoiselle?" 

"Mrs. Burt thought that if I had been more observant 
and prompt, that — " 

"She's a fool." 

Joyful took her hand away and placed it under her cheek 
again. "It will help me to get well to know I couldn't 
have done anything." Then she added after a pause, 
"And it helps me also, your being so kind." She did not 
like to take her hand from his, yet she felt abashed at the 
caress. Nevertheless, his gentle sympathy comforted her. 

"Is that your trouble, then ? Is it all you have on your 

"Yes — no — I can't say — I haven't any one to get 
well for, and it is hard to try, I really think I don't care. 
If it is n't wicked to feel so — I think I would rather lie 
still and — go out. They are all gone — the ones I loved." 
She lay sadly silent, and the doctor sat pondering. She 
must be roused to care for her life, or she would "go out, " 
even as she said. He pulled at his mustache — took a 


cigar from his pocket case, then struck a match, but forgot 
to light it. Suddenly he became illuminated with the 
central light of her nature. " If it is n't wicked to fed so — " 
That was the point on which to touch. 

'^Yes, it is wicked to feel so — it's damned wicked I " 
he burst out witb startling emphasis. "I — ahem! — 
Have you done anything in particular yet to feel that you 
have a right to let go ? Every one has some business in 
the world, or — or — he would n't have been put in it — 
Ahem — " He felt himself to be running aground in his 
theology, for, like old Chaucer's "Physician," "His study 
was but litil in the bibil." Joyful raised herself, and looked 
at the doctor intently, and he, with assumed ministerial 
gravity, returned the gaze. Like a true physician, he must 
follow any line that led to healing, and he reiterated, " Yes, 
it is damned wicked to feel so, you know — " He reaUzed 
that his phrase was hardly the scriptural one, but nothing 
better suggested itself. " You 're too yoimg to have finished 
all your work. There 's plenty to do — plenty to do. You 
don't know — why, somebody may be needing you this 
very minute — may be passing this building now who needs 
you. Oh, I own it 's easier to shut your eyes and drop out 
of the world, but you have no right to do that at your age 
— you must find out what you were put here for first — 

"I think I understand what you mean. Even weak and 
sick people have their monsters to fight. Perhaps it is just 
the desire to die and leave their work imdone that coils 
aroimd their hearts, and makes them cold and faint." 

"That 's it, by Heaven ! You '11 work it out." 

"I think I know some one — that may — perhaps — 
need me, but I have lost her." 


'' Ah, that 's right. Get well and find her." He rose and 
moved restlessly about, and spoke again, as if to himself. 
''Damn it, that 's the right tack." Then he came back and 
stood a moment looking down into her dear eyes. '' Good- 
bye. You get well, right straight, and then you find her. 
To die would be a sin, a terrible sin." He took her hand 
again from under her chin and, stooping, touched it with his 
lips, and strode rapidly away, muttering, ''Damn it." 

The fumes of his dgar came back to her as he lighted it 
just outside the door. It reminded her of Mark Thorn, and 
a pang shot through her heart. She quivered from head 
to foot and, covering her face with her hands, cowered in 
the pillow and sobbed. But it was a saving sorrow, after 
all. She wanted to live, if only to see him once more. 



''There dwelt sweet love and constant chastity, 
Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood. 
Regard of honor, and mild modesty ; 
There virtue reigns as queen in loyal throne, 
And giveth laws alone, 
The which the base affections do obey, 
And yield their services unto her will ; 
Nor thought of thing uncomely ever may 
Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to HI." 

— Epitsalamium. 

From that day Joyful gained in strength. After all, she 
was young and buoyant, and the thought the doctor had 
given took possession of her poetic soul and made her 
restoration to health an imperative duty. Some one 
might be needing her — might be waiting for her recovery. 
She began speculating as to whom it might be. Was it 
any one she had known, or was a new person to come into 
her life? Surely something yet awaited her out in the 
great world; was she not still young, not even twenty? 
And once again, although with maturer mind, she saw 
visions and dreamed dreams, and the horizon of her future 
glowed warmly enticing, through their dim and roseate 
haze. Who was waiting for her ? Might it be Marie Vaile ? 
They could go back to the little cottage in the cove and live 
there happily together, and do something to earn money, — 



raise flowers, or keep bees; indeed, there were many things 
they cotdd do, and be so safe and happy. She could make 
butter. Mr. Thorn had told her he liked her butter, and 
he — her heart seemed to lose a beat at the sudden thought 
— what if he might be the one who needed her ! But that — 
that could never be — never — never. It made her sad 
that, however her thoughts might wander, they inevitably 
came back to him. How could a man seem right and beauti- 
ful and yet be so evil that even to think of him was wrong ? 
Mrs. Bings had told her she had no doubt that all Marie's 
wrongdoing might be traced back to him, and had not that 
beautiful Mrs. Stevens who sold flowers at the Hospital 
charity f£te told Mrs. Burt she had seen a woman as 
beautiful as a dream posing for him in his studio, an Eng- 
hsh girl ? It might have been Marie, and there could be no 
other Mr. Thorn who was also an artist. She must believe 
it, and when such sadness and wreck had been brought 
about by him, she was filled with chagrin that she could 
still think of him and long for him. What a wrong heart 
she must have that she could not shut it against him and 
hate him! 

Resolutely she turned her thoughts away from him and 
questioned what she should do next. The Burt famil)" 
were to sail in a few days, and she was to be left behind. 
Mrs. Burt had never sent to inquire whether the little 
Mademoiselle who had almost given her life for her son was 
living or dead. Mr. Burt had been several times to ask 
after her, and had sent her flowers now and then, but, 
being a silent man, had spoken of her to no one. 

On the last Sunday afternoon before their departure he 
called for Joyful and asked if she were not well enough to 


be taken for a drive. The air was dry and the day one of 
those sweet September echoes of summer. Yes, the nurse 
was glad to have her out for a time, but he must not fatigue 
her ; so she was dressed and walked languidly out, and was 
helped to a seat by Mr. Burt's side. He was fond of a fine 
team and always drove himself, and being of a conservative 
nature he had resisted thus far his wife's entreaties to 
purchase an automobile. 

"I don't care for them," he would say; "they are new- 
fangled and noisy, and they have a bad smell." 

The horses were easy travelers and swift, and imtil they 
were out on the quieter streets Mr. Burt gave himself to 
the pleasure of driving them, with no apparent heed to his 
companion, while Joyful lay back against the cushions and 
yielded herself to the delicious pleasure of the moment. 
She let the troublesome thought of what she should do next 
slip away from her, and listened in silence to the rhythmic 
beat of the horses' feet, and drew in deep breaths of the 
sweet air. The warm simlight glowed over everything, 
and showers of yellow leaves were falling with every lightest 
wind that stirred the trees. She felt she would like to ride 
on like this forever, if the wind were alwa)rs soft and the 
sun warm, and care would only leave her and let her rest so. 

Presently Mr. Burt tiuned and looked at her. "Nice 
day," he remarked. 

" Yes. It is so good of you to take me out. What made 
you think of it?" 

"Nothing else to do — Harry gone, you gone, house 
lonely — spent the morning in the office and then deter- 
mined to come after you. Good idea." 

"The house isn't usually lonely on Sunday, is it?" 


''Oh, no. Usual crowd there. She has something going 
on this evening, I guess — looked like if Joyful gave 
a little sigh. She was thinking of the utter loneliness and 
incongruity of this man's life. ''Tired?'' he asked. 

" Oh, no. I am so happy to be out once more, I was think- 
ing a moment ago I would love to go on like this forever." 

"You can, if you want to, you know." 

She laughed a gay little laugh. "Yes, if the world would 
only stand still, and the sun would shine always, and the 
horses never tire, and the night would never come." 

"I suppose you wouldn't think, now, of coming back, 
would you ? I '11 take you with us, just say the word." 

" Oh, I could n't, I could n't ! " she cried, quite without 
thought ; but she recoiled from the idea of living longer in 
the home which had never seemed a home in the sense the 
word meant to her, and which, since Harry's death, had been 
unbearable. "I couldn't, indeed, Mr. Burt; I 'm sorry." 

"Guess you 'd better come." 

"The little girls don't need me. When Mrs. Burt is in 
France, she can find a governess who can teach them much 
better than I can, one who won't be tempted to speak 
English to them." 

"I don't care about their French nonsense. She can 
have them taught Chocktaw, if she wants to. I only care 
to keep you in the house. You '11 be better oflF than knocking 
about, and — by George ! I want you there. With Harry 
gone, and you gone — it 's — What are you going to do ? " 

"I don't know. The nurse who showed me how to take 
care of Harry thinks she can find me something to do, and 
— I have the money you gave me still untouched. You 
have been most kind to me, Mr. Burt." Her eyes filled 


with tears, and he saw them, and his big, tender heart was 
touched. He muttered an oath between his teeth. He 
knew very well what he would like to do, and had been 
revolving the scheme in his mind for some time, trying to 
make it seem the only right thing, and when he saw the 
tears he decided to try his plan, come what might. 

**I Ve a mind to throw up my hand,*' he said. "I don't 
hold any cards worth while, as it is, and I might as well." 
He paused, and Joyful looked in his face and was silent. 
** I Ve spent all my life in getting money, and I 've worked 
hard — well — I've got it, no denying that, all I need, 
and enough for her to spend, I guess. I 'm thinking I won't 
sail with her next Monday — that is, if you choose not to 
come back. She can take her share of the money and go, 
if she wants to. She has n't made the home much of a place 
for me, as I can see." He paused and glanced at Joyful. 
She was still silent and regarded him gravely. Then he 
continued, as if he were not so much addressing her as talk- 
ing to himself audibly. " Damn ! I should say she has n't. 
Her way of nmning things does n't count me in any farther 
than to keep her pocket-book filled. I '11 just fill it for her 
once for all and let her go — if you 'U — " 

"But, Mr. Burt ! Don't do that ! Go with them— for 
the sake of the children. Everything will be different over 
there, and you will find so much abroad to interest your- 
self and them. You are n't even acquainted with your own 
little girls, I believe." 

"I know my own children better than you think, 
Mam'selle; those two yoimgsters will grow up to he just 
like their — I 'U find as much pleasure in them as I would in 
a green parrot and a cockatoo. No, Mam'selle, since you 


came to us I 've learned a thing or two as well as the children. 
I 've learned what sort of a place my home is, and what it 
might have been. I 'm not middle-aged yet, and I 'm old 
and gray — and yet — and yet — I Ve a right to a little 
happiness in this world, and I '11 get it, by George, I will ! " 
He had spoken slowly and hesitatingly, and now he paused 
again. He had lived his life so immersed in his business 
that he did not know how to talk, and he removed his hat 
and wiped his brow, and then gathered up the reins, as if 
nerving himself to a supreme effort. Joyful felt a tremor 
of anxiety that was almost fear pass through her. Why 
should he tell all this to her ? Ought she to let him do so ? 
She thought not, and yet she could not rebuke him. He 
had been so good to her all this year, so considerate and 
kind, was it for this she had made herself live, to go back 
and do what she could to make that home — no, no — it 
was not he who needed her — it could not be he. 

"I think, Mr. Burt," she said, at last, "you would better 
take me back to the hospital. It's very lovely out of 
doors, but — " 

"Tired ? I thought you said you would like to drive on 
like this forever. I said you could, and I meant it. See 
here, Mam'selle, I 'm going to take a long vacation and 
go somewhere. Where shall it be? Wherever you say, 
we '11 go. There is n't a thing on earth you want that you 
sha' n't have. I 've thought this all out — I ' ve looked into 
the customs of that crowd she had around her there at New- 
port, and if she wants to train with that set and be a leader 
among them, by George, I'll follow. You and I, we'll 
be the most moral couple of the whole lot. There are the 
Bermudas, we might have a little establishment there^ or 


in the West Indies, or we could go to Japan, you. and I, 
and you — why, I 'd keep you like the Queen of Sheba (she 
was the one who had everjrthing on earth, was n't she?). 
You may think I 'm too old to be any companion for a girl 
like you, but never you fear, I '11 tiun the whole world up- 
side down, but I 'U do it. I 'U make you happy." 

During this speech, Jo3rf ul sat as one stunned. Twice she 
essayed to speak, but could find no voice. Then Mrs. Bings 
was right, no one was to be trusted who had wealth* Men 
thought their money gave them a right to do anything they 
pleased. She looked pityingly at the man at her side, and 
yet as she looked she recoiled from him in fear and anguish. 

"I think, Mr. Burt, I would like to go home," she found 
voice to say, at last, but he appeared not to hear the low 
murmur, and went doggedly on, looking straight ahead of 
him, and speaking through closed teeth. 

"I guess I know right from wrong as well as anybody, 
and if it is n't right for me to take a little girl and make her 
happy — I don't see that the ideas I got at church when I 
was a boy play much of a part in high society. It 's a sort 
of a big game of * Follow my leader ' they 're all playing, 
and whoever gets to be leader takes his own gait and follows 
his own whim, and as far as I can see the fellow who spends 
the most money wins. That 's the game she 's playing now. 
It's the game she's been trying to play ever since I've known 
her, and I 've been fool enough to back her and sit dumb 
while she swings ahead and drops me out. I 've given her 
the reins and the whip hand and now all I can do is to give 
her enough to last her (if she 's clever, and I know she is), 
and let her drive to the devil if she has a mind to, and I 'II 
cut loose. I 'U take you and we 'U — " 


^'Mr. Burt." Joyful leaned forward and put her hand 
on his. He turned and looked at her suddenly, as if awak- 
ened from a vision. ''Please take me back now, I — I am 

"Yes, Mam'selle, yes. I tell you there isn't a thing on 
earth you might ask of me I would n't do for you." 

"Then I have a thing I would like you to do for me, Mr. 
Burt, if that is true. I will tell you what it is after a little. 
May we go back now?" 

He tinned about immediately and allowed the team to 
pace slowly, while they sat in silence. 

At last he spoke. "Can't you tell me now what you *d 
like me to do for you ?" 

"I will try. I 'm afraid I shall lose my power to trust, 
and — I am already losing it — and I want you to help me 
get it back. If I can trust no one, I would wish to die. 
Do you understand me?" With a woman's intuition and 
a child's wisdom she was searching his face and probing 
his spirit. He did not reply, and perceiving his inability 
to comprehend the workings of her mind, she went on 
hurriedly, "Before I learned what really is in the world, I 
did not know what a blessed thing it is to have friends whom 
I might dare to trust. One by one those I loved and trusted 
have been taken from toe, and by their loss I know what a 
terrible thing it is to be able to have faith in no one." * She 
paused a moment, but still he did not speak, and she 
continued slowly, "For a young woman to have no one on 
earth into whose eyes she can look and say, 'This man is 
good; I may believe in him,' Mr. Burt, it is terrible, and life 
turns from a joy to a horror and a fear." Still he was 
silent. "I had faith in you yesterday — I respected you, 


and now — now — I ask this of you. Make it possible for 
me to trust you and respect you to-morrow." He cleared 
his throat as if he would speak, but again said nothing. 
"I think you understand me, Mr. Burt. I want you to 
drop this day, this hour, out of your life as if it had never 
been, and I will drop it out of mine. I know I imderstand 
you; your life has been drained drop by drop of the glad- 
ness it might have had — " 

"That 's it — that 's it, by George; I '11 make — " 

"But," she talked steadily on, "I suppose there never 
was a time in any life when there was only one course, one 
way to do ; for if there is a wrong way there must also be 
a right, or the other would not be wrong. Do you know 
one of your little girls has many of Harry's traits ? You 
will find her a great comfort, if you only try. You think 
you are acquainted with your own children, but really, 
I think you are not. Take Cora May into your heart in 
Harry's place. You don't know what you might do 
with them, if you cared for them a little. Then, Mr. Burt, 
I can always look up to you, and have faith in you. I can 
feel that you are my friend, a true one. That is what I 
need most." 

"You can that," he said hoarsely, and they spoke no 
more xmtil they reached the hospital. Then he lifted her 
gently down and held her hand a moment in his, but as he 
looked at her his eyes seemed not to see her, and she knew 
they saw with inner vision his little son. 

"Love those who are left," she said. "It seems cruel 
for a father not to love his own." 

As she turned from him he caught her by the sleeve with 
shaking hand, and this time he looked into her eyes, not 


past her. ''See here, little girl — Mam'selle, I suppose 
there 's nothing — I suppose money could n't make you say 
any — thing different ? '' 

"No, Mr. Burt, I can't explain — if you could look into 
my heart you would imderstand. There is something we 
can't see nor touch that lives in each one of us, it is not the 
brain we think with, it 's — it 's — what we love with, and 
money can't buy it nor measure it, and with our hands we 
can't catch it nor hold it any more than we can this sunlight ; 
and yet it is just as real as the sunlight, and when it goes 
away from us, the money and the hands that held the money 
mean nothing to it You can't buy and sell it any more 
than you could buy or sell your love for Harry, or his for 
you. It would be more possible for me to jmnp from a high 
precipice into a black sea, than do for money what you ask.'' 

"I believe you," he said, and turned heavily away. 



I saw one stand 
Holding * the keys of hell and death ' in either hand : 

His countenance 
Glowed with a light m3rsterious and sof t, his glance 

Made luminous all space. 
When from my dungeon deep I cried, He turned Hb face 

And smiled on me, 
And said, * Be comforted. These be the keys of love to set thee free.' 

After a weary, feverish night Joyful rose and tried to 
feel herself strong enough to go out a little. She could not 
linger a day longer than she must, because of the expense 
entailed, and the necessity of being occupied pressed upon 
her ; but with the exertion of dressing and moving about 
her small room she knew herself to be too weak to walk out, 
so she sat by her window and gazed down into the street, 
watching the passing vehicles. Her thoughts recurred to 
the drive of the day before, and she was filled with sadness 
and a haunting sense of shame. All night she had tossed 
and fretted imder the burden of this shame, as the words 
George Burt had spoken came back to her. She had sought 
to excuse them as the words of a disheartened, sorrowful 
man, trying to wrest a little happiness out of life for himself 
at whatever cost, yet her supersensitive conscience punished 
her with the thought that this very desire to excuse him 
degraded her the more. She tormented herself by imagin- 



tng some wrong in her own nature that she could not hate 
him for what he had proposed to her, instead of pitying and 
longing to trust him still. What was the trouble ? Was 
her purity of heart becoming imdermined by all she had 
seen and learned since she had left her safe little haven ? 
It must be so. There was Mr. Thorn whom she dared not 
see again; why? Because her heart ached with longing to 
see him. And there was poor Marie Vaile who had done so 
wrongly, and whom she had seen stretched in drunken, dis- 
graceful sleep, and yet she loved her, and would fly to her, 
if only she knew where to seek for her. 

Suddenly her thoughts were arrested by what was trans- 
piring in the street below. An automobile had stopped 
before the hospital, and a man was lifting from it a young 
woman who seemed to have been hurt, and another lady, 
troubled and frightened, was trying to assist him, who ran 
on before to smnmon help, as he carried his apparently un- 
conscious burden in. Joyful grew paler, and grasped the 
window ledge for support, as she watched them. Then, 
as she still stood clinging, quivering and white, she heard 
the swish of silken skirts outside her door and a woman's 
voice speaking rapidly and with suppressed exdtenient, 
and she knew they were taking the wounded young woman 
into the vacant room opposite her own. 

For an instant her heart beat madly. It was Marie. 
She was sure it was Marie Vaile who was hurt. Then she 
forced herself into calmness and walked quietly into the 
hall. The door of the room stood open, and the gentleman 
who had carried the young woman in stood just outside, 
leaning against the wall. He looked very white and ill. 
A murse was passing, and seeing his face drawn as if in pain, 


paused to ask if he was hurt also. Joyful heard him say, 
"No, not exactly." A moment later the nurse brought 
him a glass of wine, and he walked slowly to the end of the 
hall and sat down. 

Within the room a nurse was gently removing the patient's 
jacket. She took scissors and cut away the sleeve and 
opened the shoulder seams. The beautifully dressed 
lady stood near, twisting her delicate handkerchief into 
shreds. Now and then she touched away with it the tears 
which brimmed her eyes. 

"Oh, will she live, will she live?" she murmured again 
and again. 

"We cannot tell, Mrs. Stevens. The doctor will be here 
imimediately. There, she is coming to herself," said the 
nurse, as the patient moaned. All this time Joyful stood 
in the doorway, fascinated — unheeded. The lady brushed 
past her and spoke to the gentleman without. "She may 
live, Scott; she is becoming conscious now. We can learn 
who she is and take word to her friends — that much we 
can do." She returned quickly and stood again at the 
bedside. Slowly the suflFerer opened her eyes and gazed 
at the open doorway and suddenly, with glad recognition 
illuminating her face, she cried out, — 

"Joyful, come to me, come," and in an instant Joyful was 
bending over her, kissing her lips and holding her face in 
both her hands. 

"Don't excite yoiurself, Mam'selle Antoinette, and don't 
excite her," said the nurse. " I think you can't do anything 
now, Mrs. Stevens. We will find out all we can about her, 
and in an hour or so you might send round." 

Then the lady swept out, and Joyful heard her speaking. 


^'We are to inquire in an hour, Scott, and learn all about 
her. She is recovering a little. She spoke to that young 
girl who stood in the doorway ; and, Scott, we must dismiss 
that chauffeur right away. Why, Scott, dear ! The shock 
has made you very ill. Come out in the air. There is 
such an odor of anaesthetics here, no wonder," and her 
voice died away down the corridor. 

Joyful heard as in a dream. Far back in her memory 
the name Scott Stevens seemed to come to her, hovering in 
a mist of anguish and horror. Where had she heard it or 
seen it ? Scott Stevens — Scott Stevens — and through it 
she heard Marie faintly imploring to be allowed to speak 
to her, and begging the nurse not to send her away. 

"Mam'selle's nerves are not strong; she has been very 
ill," said the nurse; "I don't know if she can stand it." 

Marie's eyes sought Joyful's imploringly. "Must I lose 
you again ? Oh, I 'n;i afraid, I 'm afraid ! " she moaned. 

"You will never lose me again, Marie, never, never. I 
have been getting well on purpose to find you." Marie 
smiled, and the smile faded as she relapsed into uncon- 
sciousness. Then the doctor came, and the nurse bade 
Joyful go. 

For hours Marie remained for the most part under the 
influence of opiates, and when Joyful was allowed to see 
her again, she lay white, and only her eyes seemed to be 
alive. Her poor crushed body was bound a:bout so that 
she could move neither hand nor foot. 

"Will she live?" Jo3rful had asked the nurse, and the 
reply was, '* It is to be hoped not." 

During her moments of consciousness, Joyful was allowed 
to rem^Jin.witli .her. Louise Stevens, full of concern and 


pity, came every day, and was lavish in her gifts of flowers 
and in her expressions of sorrow, and her indignation at the 
carelessness of their chaufifenr. 

"No one could be more unhappy over this than my 
husband," she said. "He has been really ill over it, and 
has parted with his machine, and says he never will ride in 
one again. It is so hard on him." 

Marie gazed steadily in her eyes as she spoke, and then 
said faintly: "Tell him — tell your — husband to enjoy 
his machine again, for it has done me a kindness. Tell 
him this is Marie Vaile's message to him." 

After Louise was gone, Marie begged Joyful to come 
close to her side, and Joyful knelt by the bed and laid her 
cheek against Marie's. 

"I wish to talk to you for a few moments, and you must 
not interrupt me, for in a very little while the effects of 
what they have given me will pass, and the awful craving 
will drive me mad again. It is worse tBan the pain I 
suffer. I would rather be crushed, and ground to powder 
than to be denied my opiate. Joyful, do you really in your 
heart — do you honestly believe in a God — a good God ? 
Don't lie to me." 

"Oh, yes, yes, Marie." 

"You wanted to pray to God once in my room." 


"Did you?" 

"Yes, Marie." 

"What came of it?" Joyful was silent. "What did 
you ask for?" 

" I only asked to know what was right to do." 

"What happened?" 


'' Some one came, some one whom I knew, and took me 
away." Joyful faltered. 

"Well, you were taken care of, it seems. Did you pray 
for me?" 

"Oh, yes, Marie. Always, always !" 

"What did you ask for me ? " 

"I wanted you, Marie, I wanted to find you." 

"Yes? So that prayer seems to have been answered, 
also. You have me again, for a few days, and then — who 
knows where I shall be ? I don't care, so long as I can be 
out of the hell I have been in for the last year. I might as 
well be in one hell as another. Listen." Slowly she 
closed her lids, and slowly opened them again, and Joyful 
lifted her head, and they looked in each other's eyes. "The 
chauffeur was not to blame for crushing me. I did it my- 
self. Don't tremble with the horror of it. Don't mind. 
God does n't care what we do so much as you think. I was 
getting off the car, and all at once I saw them coming, and I 
did n't care, I stood there and looked at him, and let it come 
on me. Why should I care ? My heart, my soxil had been 
crushed long before. I dropped where I was, and in an 
instant he had finished his work. Never mind, dear, never 
mind — you don't need to understand. My father was a 
minister. He believed in God and the devil. Don't 
interrupt me, dear — he had to — it was his profession, 
but — whatever he believed, he loved me, and wherever 
he is, I shall not be with him — if what he believed is true. 
I — I have sinned, and I shall be in some horrible place set 
apart for siich as I, for oh, I have sinned ! I have sinned ! 
— He will wait for me — if it is true — and watch for me, 
and I can never go to him. That is what is breaking my 


heart. Why do you believe m a God, Joyful ? How can 
you when He permits men and women to be cruel to each 
other, to lie and to hate, and to crush each other's hearts 
out? I woxild weep, only I wept all my tears long ago. 
If I were a God, I would weep for the poor creatures I had 
created and then left to their own destruction. Oh, I 
have loved and I have hated — How I have hated ! and I 
can't tell you which has brought me the most pain. I 
hated — but it is past, and it would do no good to say whom, 
only I was even afraid if there is a God I shoxild hate Him, 
so, now that I am to go, there is no hope for me. I shall be 
in one place and my beautiful old father in another. He 
believed in a heaven and a hell. I and the man who made 
me sin in one place, and my father in another; if father 
was right, that is the way it will be." 

"You must not talk so. I know some words, Marie, 
that makq me think it will not be so. Listen — *I am He 
that liveth and was dead ; and behold I am alive for ever- 
more and have the keys of hell and of death.'" 
"What does that mean to you. Joyful?" 
"I think it means that while we can't understand, yet 
we can trust, for Christ has the keys, the keys that will 
liberate. I never think that any one is to be forever in one 
place; everything moves and changes, and things are 
transformed — they die and come to life again. I believe 
even more in spirit than I do in body, Marie. You see what 
I mean ; here is your beautiful body lying all crushed and 
torn, and you, oh, Marie ! You have got to leave it here, 
and when you have left it, it must be laid away, but you, you, 
dear, that which shines now in your face, the cruel wheels 
could not touch it. The you that looks into my eyes, that 


is real, as real as God. You see God must be, or there woidd 
be no you to live, to love me, to go out of what lies here on this 
bed and leave it to its fate. Listen, Marie. Do you truly 
love me ? Is your love real ? Then, Marie, it can't be this 
crushed, hurt thing that lies here that loves me ; there is some- 
thing that is going out of it that loves me ; it is the you that 
looks out of your eyes into mine. Love can't exist without a 
source, and this you that is loving me so will go and find God. 
Just as your love draws my heart to you, so His love will draw 
yomrs to Him. No matter what you have done. He will 
know the love in you and you will find God. Oh, I know, 
Marie; I am not afraid of God, I never have been." 

For a few moments Joyful knelt sobbing beside her, and 
then Marie said gently: "I will try to believe you, little 
pink rose, I will try. The pink is gone from your cheeks 
now, but some day it will come back. Yes, I must try. At 
any rate I shall know soon. Dear, the craving is coming 
on again, and I must finish what I have to say. Not long 
ago I inherited a Uttle money from my father. I have made 
a will and left it to you. It is n't much, but it will keep you 
safe, with what you earn, and if the time ever comes when 
you don't need it, I have told in my will what I wish done 
with it. It is to be used for sad — sad girls — who think 
there is no hope. There, Joyful — there, darling, send the 
nurse to me — send the nurse. I can't stand this any 
longer. They won't give it to me — I tell you they must." 
Her voice rose to a scream, and the nurse came quickly. 
** You would better leave her now, Mademoiselle," she said, 
bending over Marie and trying to soothe her. "Yes, yes. 
Very soon. Miss Vaile; be patient a little longer." She 
gave her some soothing drops. 


''I say you must help me. This won't relieve me for 
more than a moment." She tried to lift her head, and her 
poor body quivered as with an ague. She struggled for 
mastery of herself, and the nurse knew she was in agony. 
Presently she became quiet and called again for Joyfid^ 

"I didn't finish telling you, dear — I have something 
very important to tell you, but I can't grasp the thought 
long enough to get it said. Let me see — I made the will 
— yes — and then I — thought if I never saw you again — 
at least I had — had — but I meant to do this, not quite 
this, I meant to be killed outright — I — I wanted him 
to — finish his own work — " 

Joyful saw she was becoming excited again, and laid a 
cool hand on her brow, and gently kissed her. ''Don't 
try to talk about it now, Marie; I understand." 

"No, you don't. There's something inore I must say. 
There is some one who loves you — who — I wrote a letter 
and I put the will with it in a large envelope, and it hap* 
pened just before I did this, I mailed it, but I could not mail 
it to you, dear, so I sent it to — I sent it — I did n't know 
where you were, so — dear Joyfxil, " her voice trailed off in 
a whisper, and then new strength seemed to come to her, and 
she cried again for the nurse, and wailed and wept, and all 
she said became incoherent and disjointed, and Joyful was 
sent away. 

"You can do nothing now, Mademoiselle. As soon as 
the doctor comes he will give her an opiate. That is what 
she wants, and she will only rave until she gets it," and 
fojrful went, weeping silently. 

Soon the doctor came, and then the raving ceased, and in 
the morning Marie Vaile had departed. The body she had 


willingly cast down to be crushed lay there, but she was gone« 
Then Joyful wept for her no more, because she believed, as 
she had said, more in spirit than in body. She could not 
weep, for He who held the keys of death had tinlocked the 
portal of her life and set her free. 

Louise Stevens came in as usual, and the flowers she 
brought were laid on the quiet breast. They were white 
lilies, for word had been brought her that Miss Vaile was 
dead. Louise had asked her husband to buy them for her, 
but he had answered, "No, dear, you get them, anything 
that seems to be appropriate," and Louise had chosen white 
lilies, and now she wept, as she stood beside the dead. 

"She must have befen very lovely once," she said; "and 
we — we killed her — Scott and I. He looks ten years 
older since it happened. He says he will never get over it." 

"But it was not your fault," said Joyful, trying to com- 
fort her. 

"No, it was the fault of the chauffeur. Mr. Stevens dis- 
missed him." 

"It was no one's fault but — I know it was not the 
chauffeur's fault. She told me so." Joyful was very sorry 
for Louise in her grief, and yet could not tell her all, for 
Marie's sake. 

"Well, it must have been some one's fault," said Louise, 
with her usual coherence, "and so we had to dismiss him. 
I believe I have seen Miss Vaile before, now that I see her 
face like this, so white. Yes, I remember where it was. 
She was in Mr. Thorn's studio. Mr. Stevens and I went 
there to select a picture, and it was there I saw her." 

Joyful became suddenly rigid, and her face grew as white 
as the face of the dead ; and Louise, unseeing, talked on. 


** I remember, it was last spring, just before we were married, 
and Mr. Stevens was taken suddenly ill, and we left im- 
mediately, so I only had a glimpse of her face, but, as I see 
it now, I am sure it was she." 

Then Louise turned and saw Joyful sway where she stood, 
and caught her in her arms, and called for the nurse. '^It 
made her faint to look at it, and yet it is a lovely face," 
said Louise to the nurse, after Joyful had been taken to her 

"They seemed to be very fond of each other," said the 

"Oh, is that it?" 

"And Mademoiselle has been very ill/' 

"Oh!" said Louise. 



1 11 go where flowers are brightest and birds sing 

The year long. There my foolish heart I '11, steep 

In Lethian drafts of melody and spring. 

I 'H rest my spirit in a charmed sleep, 

While hours, like passage birds on whirring wing. 

Sweep by me, till I too may rise and pass, 

And leave this day to feed strong roots of grass. 

When Mark returned to his studio in New York, he found 
a note there from Marie Vaile. It had not been sent by 
post, but had been thrust under his door. She told him she 
thought she had found a dew at last, and had gone to follow 
it. She gave him an address in Boston, and closed with 
the hope that he had had a successfid trip, and saying that 
he might go on with his work with good heart, for she would 
surely find Miss Heatherby, and if at any time she required 
assistance from him she would let him know. The note was 
short and seemed perfectly sane and businesslike, only that 
it bore no date. He turned it over and over, wondering 
when it had been written, and how long it had awaited him. 

"Yours received," — then she had gotten his letter. He 
made rapid calculation: it might have lain there two 
months ; but the janitor assured him it could not be so 
long, for he had cleaned the apartments only three weeks 
before, and not a scrap of paper was there then ; so Mark 
did as the note suggested. He wrote Marie at the address 



given, and took up his work again with what patience he 
could. He journeyed out to the Western town and personally 
superintended the placing of the pictures he had purchased 
for them ; moreover, he sold some of his own best work, 
and returned encouraged and almost happy — happy but for 
the one consuming desire of his heart. 

He went to see Mrs. Renolds, and found her just returned 
from her smnmer at Newport. His visit with her was ani- 
mated. She had not seen him so exuberant since those 
old days in Paris. She told him much about Scott Stevens 
and Louise, and Van Burgh and his wife. 

"Those men are both in love with their wives," she said; 
" they seem the exceptions to the rule nowadays. You can't 
wonder at Scott, however/' Mrs. Renolds was sailing 
dangerously near the old sand bar. She watched Mark 
closely from under her veiling lashes, to change her tack 
the moment she saw the shadow of a cloud cross his face. 
If none came, she was safe to pursue her own vantage. " You 
know, I used to wonder at you sometimes, but I don't 
so much now, and I 'm not surprised at his infatuation 
or love, or whatever you like to call it ; for since her marriage 
Louise has given up her whimsies. She has really become 
quite a finished woman of the world, and has grown, if 
possible, more beautiful than ever. She was easily the most 
beautiful woman at Newport this simamer, and a perfect 
hostess, — just what Scott would require, since he must stand 
first in everything to be content." Mrs. Renolds paused, 
and the tea was brought in. " Sugar, Mr. Thorn ? " She 
held the lump suspended over his cup. He did not reply, 
except with a laugh, to which she responded merrily: "Of 
course, I remember. You heap a little moimtain of sugar 


in the middle of your cup, and pour the tea over it and make 
a kind of a luke-warm sirup. No other man of my ac- 
quaintance is so stupid. What have you there ? " 

With a dancing light in her eyes she watched him inter- 
estedly. He had taken a little box from his pocket and was 
carefully removing the tissue paper wrapping from some 
small object. 

'*I foxmd this in Florence, by the merest accident. I 
did n't suppose a piece was in existence that had not been 
snapped up by the collectors." He placed in her hand a 
small oval of ancient enamel set in quaint gold, exquisitely 

"Oh, Mr. Thorn. What a priceless treasure!" 

"I know it to be gentune. I found it — but that 's too 
long a story; I '11 tell you some day how I foxmd it — but I 
can vouch for it. I hovered about the place for days before 
I dared show any interest in it." 

Mrs. Renolds' cheeks grew pink with enthusiasm. " How 
delightful ! " she exclaimed, looking at him rather than at 
the treasure in her hand. 

"Yes. The moment I saw it I thought of you, and de- 
termined to secure it. You are the only one of my ac- 
quaintance who woidd know really how to appreciate it. 
Luckily I succeeded, and you have it." 

"But, Mr. Thorn — you didn't — you don't mean — " 

"If you will be so good as to accept it." 

"But, Mr. Thorn, I can't. It 's a thing of too great value 
as an art treasure to take from you." 

" Its value I have received from you long ago, Mrs. Renolds, 
with innumerable lumps of sugar." He dropped another 
piece in his cup, and laughed. " Sometimes these limips, 


when properly administered, go to sweeten life as well as 
tea," he added. 

In silence she took the bit to the light, and stood examin- 
ing it carefully. " And when you saw it you thought of me," 
she said at last in a low tone. ^' That is worth more than 
the enamel, Mr. Thorn." From where he sat in a dusky 
comer Mark looked up at her suddenly as if he had received 
a thrust. What had he done? Had he been blunder- 
ing all this time? As she stood between him and the 
white light of the window — a dark, finely-cut silhou- 
ette — he could divine nothing from her face, and she 
continued: '*To have you think that I can really appre- 
ciate a thing like this ! It elevates one out of the 
common, and inflates one's pride. I do know its intrinsic 
value, but I really accept the gift for the thought, Mr. 

"You set too high a value on my judgment," he said 

"Oh, well, we women love to be praised, and when a man 
compliments us on something in his own line^ where he is 
supposed to know most, himself, you see the praise really 
counts." She sighed. " Thereisso much that doesn't count, 
no wonder I say what I value most is the thought. You 
are not going, surely." 

" I must. I 'm rather hurried. I go to Boston to-morrow." 
He stood a moment smiling down on her from his height. 
*'You say you women love praise, but I can go you one 
better. We men love flattery, when it is so delicately ad- 
ministered that we do not recognize it as such." 

This time it was he who silhouetted against the light. She 
coidd not read his face, and was left pondering his intent. 


''Ah, we never flatter, Mr. Thorn/' she called after him as 
he passed out. 

Mark went back to his studio and sat long before the 
picture of Hester Prjmne, and as he gazed he thought of 
Marie Vaile as she had stood that day when Scott Stevens 
and Louise visited him there. Poor Marie, he must hunt 
her up and learn what she had been doing. But Marie, 
even as he thought of her, was being borne away from 
the hospital with Louise Stevens' lilies lying on her breast, 
followed by one wide-eyed, grave little mourner, who yet 
did not moiun, but looked out at the world from her carriage 
window the more sadly that she need not mourn. Poor, 
blind humanity ! Could Mark have looked at that mo- 
ment into the little mourner's eyes, what joy woxild have 
been his. 

Mark was in one of his most depressed moods. He 
seemed to be thinking in pictures that evening, many and 
varied, with always the central figure of the little maid in 
the evening light with her arms full of crab-apple blossoms. 
Now and then another figure interposed, the presence of Mrs. 
Renolds in her luxurious home, moving with gracious gentle- 
ness among the beautiful objects that siurrounded her, 
and now he knew that if the little maid never was foxmd, 
this woman of charm stood ready to offer consolation. He 
had never before grasped this thought, and he stood amazed 
at his own obtuseness. Pictorially she had always satis- 
fied him. Her delicious femininity and subtle strength had 
often comforted him, and her worldly wisdom he had 
always considered a sufficient shield and barrier. Alas! 
he had never dreamed of finding it vulnerable. 

Submerged in this psychological quandary, he began a 



serioiis self-analysis which lasted far into the night, and in 
the course of which his spirit took a tremendous stride in 
wisdom. Other women, silent shadows, crept into his 
pictures and out again, and he saw the part women had 
played in the forming of his life. There was his mother, 
wide-browed, looking into his heart with gray eyes full of 
sympathy and love, and he felt as he used to feel when a boy, 
that he must be true with himself to stand imabashed before 
them. Then there was the reign of beauty, worshipful 
beauty bending down to him, coming near — always elusive 
— never yielding quite his heart's desire, filling his artist's 
sense, yet leaving him himgering for — he knew not what. 
Then, out in the world among a thousand unrealities, his 
Uttie definite aunt^ who always knew when his heart was 
sore^ with her healing touch that never probed too deep — 
all these who had ministered to some need in him, what had 
he ever done or given to merit such precious guerdon of love 
as they had brought into his life ? All but one on whom 
he had lavished much, as it seemed, for naught but the lesson 
learned, that beauty alone may seem to be enough in life for 
a time, but Can never last into eternity, nor travel with the 
soul and sustain it up to the moutain heights of joy. No ; 
up to those heights only two loves seemed to have wings 
buoyant enough to fly weighted with the soul of a man : 
the mother-love that lifts him out of the mists of the valley, 
away from the greedy, reaching arms of the world, and 
that other love, the love beyond measure, of a woman, which 
lives with him still on to the very simlit tops where the 
mountains touch the heavens. Now, as the pictures passed 
before him and he sat gazing, he knew, knew as well as if he 
held her hand and looked into her eyes^ what woman's 


soul could moimt those hdghts with his, and her he had 

When the gray light of morning stole into his studio he 
rose, chilled and stiff, and turned the picture of Hester 
Prynne to the wall. He must go and find his love. He 
strode out. It was too early for any eating house to be 
open, and he went to his lodging. A deadly cold seemed 
to have penetrated to his very bones, and for a week he lay 
too ill to leave his room, haimted by the pictures of his long 
night's vigil in his studio. 

When he was able to be about again, he foimd matters 
awaiting his attention; a dinner invitation from Mrs. 
Renolds, and several calls to social fimctions, none of which 
he could accept, chiefly because of a certain long envelope 
addressed in his care to Joyful Antoinette Heatherby, ac- 
companied by a note from Marie sending him a document 
she wished him to place in Miss Heatherby's hands in case 
anything shoidd happen to her before her search was finished. 
"I know you will be sure to find her sometime, even if I 
do not," the note ran. " I send you a copy of my will in which 
I am leaving what I have to her. It is not much, but it will 
keep her safe, and I believe you are a man whom I can trust." 

The letter stirred in him a sense of foreboding. She had 
not been successful, then, and was despondent. He knew 
her well enough to fear for her when in those moods. He 
started without more delay, and reproached himseU for his 
illness. There was no knowing what momentous thing 
might have happened during those days of inaction. He 
went first to the address Marie had given him, and learned 
there of her terrible fate. He had her belongings gathered 
together and properly stored, and placed the receipt for 


them with the document Marie had sent him; then he 
began following up the dew given him in Nathanael's letter. 

Calling at Mr. Burt's place of business, and learning that 
the family were abroad, he looked up the steamship's 
passenger list as before, but no governess was of the party. 
He learned from the caretaker at the home that the "Mam'- 
selle " had been ill, and he went the roimds of the hospitals, 
in the vague hope that she might be the inmate of one of 
them, and here he was in a measure rewarded ; but even so 
he could not learn where she had gone, nor with whom. 
The only nurse who knew was taking a vacation somewhere 
in Delaware. Disheartened and heavy-hearted he sought 
to find comfort and rest in his aimt's home, but the house- 
keeper informed him that Mr. and Mrs. Stevens had taken 
Mrs. Parsons with them on a yachting trip down the coast. 

"I will never give up the search," he said in his heart, "as 
long as she is in the world. I will find her." As he mused 
on the problem one day, he bethought him that the will 
Marie had placed in his hands gave him a legal right to find 
Joyful without the danger of subjecting her to the annoyance 
he had so carefully avoided. He immediately placed the 
papers in the charge of his lawyer, telling him to leave no 
stone unturned until the document was delivered, and to 
keep him notified. Then he took up his work again with 
renewed energy. At last the hand of the law was stretched 
out to draw her to him, and he could with patience await 
the result. In the interim he would try to achieve some- 
thing for her sake like a true knight. 

During this time Mervain Thompson was growing impa- 
tient for his picture. He wrote scolding letters, and at 
last visited Mark in his studio, but when he saw the nearly 


finished work, he ceased his tirade and took the young 
artist's hand. 

"I won't say another word," he said. "Take your own 
time, but whatever you do, don't touch the figure of Hester 
Prjmne. I say don't touch that face, I 'U take the painting 
as it is, rather." 

Mark laughed. ''It's the old complaint. You won't 
trust me even when you praise me." 

'' But I tell you that face is inspired. You may not know 
it, but it is," cried the enthusiast. 

''No, I'm not sure that it was inspired, but I have no 
wish to touch it again. I must finish more carefully some 
of the others, however. I'm not satisfied with Arthur 
Dimmesdale. I 'U get it, though ; and old Roger Chilling- 
worth is only outlined, as yet." 

" Well, leave it so. You don't need to do much more with 

The painting was oblong, to fill the space Mr. Thompson 
had allotted him. On one side, raised a little above the 
heads of the crowd, stood Hester Pr3mne with the child, its 
hand thrust in the neck of her dress, and the scarlet letter 
revealed under the bare baby arm. Below her were the 
three old gossips wagging heads together, and the sweet- 
faced young matron, her own child sleeping in her arms, 
gazing up at Hester with sad, prophetic sympathy. In the 
backgroimd were soberly clad maidens shading their eyes 
with their hands, and staid, virtuous mothers and fathers 
with their children looking in their faces wonderingly, all 
gazing at Hester, some pointing, some leaning eagerly with 
chin thrust forward. Opposite her and slightly higher was 
the balcony where sat the governor and reverend old judges 


in stem array, while leaning far over the balcony railing 
was Arthur Dimmesdale, pale and emaciated, with noble brow 
and exquisitely cut features, and tremulous mouth; his 
eyes fixed on hers so earnestly, so fearfully, and yet so 
pleadingly that the look passing between Hester and him- 
self seemed almost to obliterate the rest of the picture. 
To the right, beneath the balcony, stood old Roger Chilling- 
worth, intent, keen, and the only face in the whole waiting 
crowd that was turned, not toward Hester Prynne, but 
toward the yoimg minister. 

As Mark stood before it, his face grew clouded. He was 
thinking of Marie and her fate, and through all his being 
he himgered for Joyful. Mervain Thompson looked up in 
the yoimg artist's face quizzically. 

"Come down out of the clouds," he said. "What 's the 
matter with it ? Great Scott ! I believe you 're not satis- 
fied with it, and I 'm going to send for it to-day. I '11 rescue 
that painting." 

"That's a little fiction of yours, Thompson. I'm a 
sane man. It 's only geniuses, great geniuses, who are so 

"I shall send for that picture to-day," said the little man, 
stamping energetically about the studio. "If you wish 
to do anything more to it, you '11 have to come to the house 
and do it after it is up." 

"Very well," said Mark, indulgently. "Take it when 
you please. Will you allow me to enter it for exhibit here 
in New York this winter ?" 

"Gladly," said Thompson, relenting. He did not send 
for it that day, and Mark was allowed to finish it at hb 
leisure. Later it was placed on exhibit, and he had the 


pleasure of refusing twice the sum he had asked for it, saying 
it was already sold. When Mr. Thompson learned of this, 
he used language stronger than his wont, and went to Mark, 
expressing his regret. 

" If I had that man's millions, I 'd make it up to you," he 
said. But Mark laughed. "No, you have only the brains 
in that big head of yours, he has the money ; but all his 
money could not equal what you gave me long ago when 
you thought you saw some merit in my work. When you 
gave me the mural painting to do in your music room, men 
and women were passing my pictures by without a second 
glance. I had returned from Paris, that Mecca of artists, 
full of hope and enthusiasm, only to learn that to hail from 
any point this side of the Atlantic was death to an artist's 
career — that he must exile himself from his own land in 
order that the parvenus over here might import their art 
treasures from Europe — that art fundamentally meant 
nothing to them. The man who offered me double your 
price for this picture knows nothing about art ; he would 
place it among a lot of senseless bargains — by Jove ! and 
then boast of the price he gave — but there ! The less said, 
the better. Some day he will come to me, and I '11 sell 
him a picture and be glad to pocket the money, no doubt. 
We artists may storm, but after all we must live by 

He laughed, but not so bitterly as he used to smile when 
he thought of his reception in the past. No ; Fortune seemed 
to be turning her wheel in his favor, and he was stimulated 
to greater effort, and began one or two more serious pieces. 
Now and then he would work on the paintings of Undine. 
These he loved to linger over, and always when he was most 


hopeful he would place the head he had shown Marie where 
his eyes could rest on it whenever he looked up. 

As he sat thus absorbed in his private comer one after- 
noon Mrs. Renolds entered with a party of friends, and, 
according to their wont, seeing the artist at work, they 
prowled in the rest of the apartment as they pleased, turn- 
ing pictures about and setting them in different lights at their 
will, and chatting, criticizing, and laughing. Mrs. Renolds 
often accompanied a chosen few thus, and now she pro- 
ceeded, as had been her custom of late, to make tea and set 
out his stale biscuits, which she found in a littered little cup- 
board over the tea table. 

*'Mr. Thorn," she called at last, "your Sfevres is a dream, 
but I must say your cupboard is a nightmare, and where is 
the alcohol?" She brought him the little silver can. "Come, 
put away your work and find it for me. This is empty." 
As she approached him. she saw the pastel of Joyful placed 
where it was not to be seen from the larger room, and at the 
same moment she caught the glance he bestowed on it as he 
turned toward her. 

"Oh, Mr. Thorn, why have you never exhibited this? 
It is the most charming thing you ever did. Is it an ideal ? " 
She spoke in lowered tone, and her exclamation was un- 
heeded by the friends who had treated themselves to a 
portfolio of sketches. "No," said Mark, placing it in a 
better light, "it is a portrait." 

" When did you do it ? Where did you find such a witch- 
ing child, or is it a young woman ? " 

"Both," he replied, with a smile. "I did it last summer 
in the wilds." He turned it hastily to the wall, and went 
to fill the silver can. 


''Where is she now?" she asked. 

"I would be glad to know, but I haven't the slightest 
idea," he said most truthfully. 

'' It 's so elusive. Let me see it again sometime, will you ? " 
She studied his face, and particularly his mouth, as she spoke. 

" I will, indeed, some day," he replied, and addressed himself 
to the others, while searching for the alcohol. '^ This is what 
comes of allowing your room to be set to rights. Sometimes 
it is a gem of art that is missing, sometimes it is the fuel." 

''Is that what makes the biscuits stale, also?" queried 
Mrs. Renolds, testing one between her perfect teeth. 

"Stale? Who dares call my cakes stale? I got them 
only a week ago. If you wanted them fresh, why did n't 
you come then?" He turned to her quietly. "These are 
abominable," he said; "while you make the tea I '11 nm out 
and get some fresh ones, and if you search in that cupboard 
a little further, you '11 find some really good jam — to be 

Then it was that Mrs. Renolds deliberately yielded to 
a temptation. Her woman's intuition told her she had 
stumbled into one of the secret chambers of a man's heart, 
and since the door seemed, perhaps only accidentally, to be 
closed against her, she wanted to know more. She was to 
be pardoned, for she cared much and she did not know 
whether to still keep the door to her own secret chamber 
closed, the door she had set ajar for him. Quickly she 
glanced at her friends. They were still examining the 
sketches and exclaiming over them. Then she went boldly 
to the work comer, and turned the canvas about. She 
knelt before it and eagerly scanned the face, only for a 
moment, as she might the face of a rival, then she rose and 


walked slowly backward, gazing at it. *'Ah" she said, at 
last, '^this is what it means." Then she tiimed the face 
again to the wall and strolled back to the tea table. 

When Mark returned, the small kettle was singing gayly, 
the friends were having a lively altercation over the merits 
of a certain picture, and Mrs. Renolds was thoughtfully 
measuring the tea. 

"I want this to be exactly right," she said, smiling up at 
Mark, as he gave her the biscuits, "because I sha' n*t have 
the pleasure of making tea here again for — nor you the 
pleasure of drinking it of my making, incidentally — for — 
oh, for months." 

"Oh, Mrs. Renolds ! What do you mean?" burst from 
a chorus of voices. 

"I 'm going to spend the winter in Florence." 

"And you Ve just remodeled your lovely home ! And all 
the joUiest things coming on ! How can you?" came the 
chorus again. 

"Easily enough. I'm sick of the great lonely place — 
and in Florence I shall have friends — also — and simshine, 
and flowers — plenty of them." 

Mark said nothing. He sauntered back and stood a 
moment studjring the picture on his easel on which he had 
been working when they entered. Incidentally he noticed 
that the portrait of Joyful was set at a different angle to the 
wall than he had left it, and being fussy about how his 
canvases should stand, he replaced it and returned to take 
the cup from Mrs. Renolds' hand. 

"I don't wonder you prefer Florence to New York," he 
said, smiling as their eyes met. 

"I most certainly do," she replied. 



** For knre is lord of truth and loyalty. 
Lifting himself out of the lowly dust, 
On golden plumes, up to the highest sky. 


"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick," said Mark to 
himself. Searching in the box he carried on his sketching 
tours, for a tube of color, he had come upon a little withered 
violet that he had dropped in among his brushes on a certain 
summer's day, when he had been living an idyll and think- 
ing that, in a manner, he was being — or trying to be — the 
arbiter of a young girPs fate. 

He took up the frail atom, and smiled sadly as he laid it 
carefully on a bit of white paper where its sxunmer's tints 
showed faintly through the withered brown, even as Joyful's 
words repeated themselves, and her thought glowed within 
him after these many months. " Everything has beauty — 
this has — but a soul must be more than just beauty, or 
Undine would have been enough without it." He touched 
the little flower with his finger, and moved it about on the 
paper. "Yes, wise little maid," he said, "a soul is more 
than beauty, for this is what beauty alone comes to, and 
a soul — her soul — is beauty — deathless — elusive — not 
to be grasped nor chained — a beauty to be felt and hun- 
gered for; it is hers and her God's to be bestowed, not claimed 
nor seized." 



He unlocked a hidden drawer in an antique cabinet and 
took from it a tiny gold box, supposed to be from the hand 
of Benvenuto Cellini. The center of the cover of this box 
was St. Michael slaying the dragon, and the rest of the 
framework was fashioned of the writhing body and wings 
and tail of the beast imder his feet. Mark opened this 
treasure of his small collection and wiped the interior care- 
fully with his handkerchief, and placed within it the withered 
flower. He smiled as he turned the box about in his hand, 
and studied for the himdredth time its quaint design. Ah, 
dear little Joyful, with her world of poetic fancy, her knights 
valiantly fighting monsters for their noble ladies' sakes, this 
box with its St. Michael, his drawn sword in his hand and 
his heel on the dragon's head, was a fitting shrine for her 
symbol. He replaced the box, turned the key, and then 
went back to his easel. 

Golden Success, with outstretched hands, was hastening 
Mark Thorn's way during these day^, almost imheeded 
by him because of ideals yet above him, and while these 
heights were still to climb, he looked with modesty at the 
distance already covered, which seemed but short, compared 
with the long vista before him. His work was attracting 
attention. Critics, scenting popular applause ahead, made 
haste to prove themselves prophetic, but although being 
borne rapidly on the high tide of public favor, Mark did not 
realize it. He was absorbed in striving to reach the soul of art, 
and fill the artist's true vocation ; to play upon the sweetest 
chords of human life; to stir deadened sympathies and 
awaken aspiration ; to make truer lovers of men and holier 
beings of women. To this ambition had his long months 
of waiting and pondering, and study of men's and women's 


lives and ambitions, brought him ; to this had the thought 
given him by the wise little maiden whose image he kept in 
his heart held him. True, she had been taught to fear him 
and to fly from him, but he still felt the touch of her dinging 
arms about his neck, and her tears on his cheek. 

In this absorption the long winter finally passed, scarcely 
intruded upon by the calls of social life, since Mrs. Renolds' 
departure. The only dew he had to the whereabouts of 
Joyful was contained in a note his lawyer had received from 
her hand, postmarked Havana, requesting him to keep the 
papers intrusted to his care until her return to Boston in the 
spring, when she would confer with him. Not a word of 
herself, but even this was better than nothing. It would 
help him maintam his soul in patience a few months longer, 
for had not spring returned each year for many hundreds 
of years, therefore was not the coming of the spring inevi- 
table, and with it the return of love ? 

March came and passed, so cold and blustering that it 
brought no winter wanderers home. Mark's aunt Kate 
had been away from Boston all winter, part of the time with 
Scott Stevens and Louise, and had written she would not 
return until the middle of April, but no further word had 
come from Joyful, and here was April gliding in, tearful and 
dreamy, and buds were beginning to swell and birds to call. 
He stopped the lawyer on the street one day, to ask if he had 
received any word, but his answer was, "No, the young 
lady wrote she would notify me in the spring, and as the 
season 's half over now I may hear any day." 

"You have Mrs. Parsons' address in Boston, have you 
not ? I shall be with her in a few days. Drop me a line 
there as soon as you hear from Miss Heatherby, will you ?'' 


Mark's impatience knew no bounds. He thought it would 
be easier to wait in Boston, and if his aunt had not returned, 
the housekeeper would take him in, and Stokes would look 
after him ; but greatly to his surprise he found her already 
there domiciled in her home as if she had never left it. 

"Yes," she said to Mark, as they sat comfortably before 
the open fire in the library, waiting for tea to be brought in, 
" we came earlier than I wrote you — it was too warm in 
Florida. The heat seemed to be making Nettie ill, and I 
always grow homesick towards the last. I like to be in my 
own home with my own things around me." 

"Nettie — who is Nettie, an Angora cat, a pug dog, or a 


"Didn't I write to you about her? I meant to." 

"No," said Mark, in an injured tone. "I have only had 
two letters from you, Aunt Kate, since last summer." 

" But whose fault is it ? That 's one more than Aunt Kate 
has had from you." 

He took out his pipe and filled it slowly and carefully, 
and as he did so, he glanced at her and saw the loving light 
in her eyes as she watched him. "I Ve been an imgrateful 
yomigster. Aunt Kate," he said, and gave the log in the 
fireplace a savage thrust. "Why don't you disown me?" 

"Because I want a boy in the home. Come back to 
Boston and paint, and live with me, Mark." 

He drew his chair nearer hers and laughed. "You think 
I could live with you now in peace, do you? But there 
would be too much peace. Aunt; you would spoil me and I 
would grow lazy." 

** You've become a tremendous success, Mark. I've 
been hearing all about it." 


"Have I?" he looked at her with some surprise. 

"Don't you know it yourself ? Every one who keeps up 
with the times is talking of you. Have n't you seen the 
magazine articles about you and your studio ? " 

"Yes, I know about them, of course," he said indifferently. 

"And the copies of your last pictures, and the old ones no 
one would look at three years ago. What a triiunph ! And 
the new one of Mr. Thompson's, and the mural work, oh, 
it is a success. And you knew, and never wrote me a word 
of it when you knew it would make me so happy. And that 
one you are doing in New York, is it David before Saul ?" 

" Yes. I 've never seen just the youth David that pleased 
me in art. Browning's Saul gives the greatest picture." 
Mark turned to the low bookcase behind him and drew 
out a copy of Browning. "Here it is," he said, after a 
moment's search for the place. 

"Everything Louise demanded of you, you have become." 

"Perhaps, and yet what I have been struggling to attain 
she never demanded," he said, dreamily. "Well, here it is, 
my picture, if I can ever paiut it. I will put this mark in 
the place, and you can read it at your leisure. Can I give 
my coimtry an artist who can paint as Browning wrote? 
Is the aim too high?" 

"No, Mark, not according to Emerson." 

They sat silent for a few moments, and Stokes brought in 
the tea. Mark leaned back and puffed at his pipe, his eyes 
half dosed, and his hand on the arm of his aimt's chair. 
She did not pour the tea. "I'm waiting for Nettie," she 
said, "she loves to pour it, and besides I want you to meet 
her. I wonder why she does n't come down. She 's a sensi- 
tive creature. We were home just in time for the Thomp- 



son housewarming, and I took her with me last night, and 
; while we were there I missed her, and when I found her she 
was alone in the library before your picture of Hester 
Prynne at the Trial. She was weeping, and seemed really 
ill, so I had to fetch her right home ; and all this morning 
she has seemed very sad, and not at all like herself." 

The fragrance of Mark's pipe filled the library and 
floated out into the room beyond, where a young woman 
paused a moment, hesitating, before with trembling hand she 
pushed aside the heavy curtains that h\mg between the two 
apartments. As she did so, Mark glanced up, then sprang 
to his feet and fl\mg his pipe in the fireplace, but before 
he could reach her she swayed forward and sank to the floor 
a white, unconscious heap. 

Mark stooped over her, then gathered her up in his arms 
and turned to his frightened aunt. "Where shall I take 
her?" he said. 

"To her own room. I '11 show you." His a\mt called a 
maid. "Bring the brandy and send Stokes for the doctor 
immediately," she said. 

"He 's not here, m'am, he went to find that coachman you 
spoke of as soon as tea was served." 

Mark carried his burden up the stairs and laid her on her 
own bed. How coidd he ever open his arms and let her go ! 
Before his aimt came in with restoratives he had kissed her 
once, and twice, and had seen her eyelids quiver. He must 
go before she lifted them and saw him there. What terror 
was in her eyes as she stood before him in that moment- 
He saw it all, all he must conquer ere he could win her. 

"Take the pillow from under her head and let her lie 
perfectly level," said his aimt, hunying in with her salts 


and brandy. "Open the window, that's right, and you 
must go for the doctor, Mark, for Stokes is not here." 

When the physician came, he pronounced it a simple faint, 
and gave orders to allow no one to see her and to keep her 
from all excitement. There was nothing the matter — 
nothing at all but some nervous strain, some sudden shock 
•"— had she had a nervous shock of any kind ? 

But Mrs. Parsons did not know of any, and she came 
down to Mark with troubled cotmtenance. "I can't 
imderstand it," she said. "She really has a very joyous 
nature, but since she came back to Boston she has seemed 
changed, and especially so since last evening. One would 
think your picture had cast a spell over her." Mark said 
nothing. He was fumbling about absent-mindedly for 
his pipe, tmaware that he had thrown it in the fire. "You 
will stay with me, Mark, for a few days, at any rate ? " 

"K you wish, Amit Kate, if — it seems best." Then he 
went out and walked and did not return until dinner. 

All that evening he sat at home with his aunt, and she 
talked to him of "Nettie," yet he said nothing. "Her 
name is Antoinette, but I always call her Nettie, for she 
seems like a daughter to me now. Louise found her and 
was attracted to her. She had been ill in one of the hospitals 
Louise has an interest in, and that is how I came to know 
of her. She has been the dearest companion a lonely old 
lady ever had, so quaint and tmexpected that one never 
tires of her." 

Mark smiled. Joyful, his beautiful, wise little maid was 
here, in the same house with him. To-morrow he would 
see her; only to wait until to-morrow. But now he must 
still keep the secret of his heart for her, for her first. He 


rested in the present delight of hearing about her, and in 
thinking how he should win h^r. 

Jo)rful did not appear at breakfast, and again Mark left 
the house and wandered restlessly until lunch time. When 
he returned, his aunt met him, with trouble in her face. 
*Xome here, Mark," she said, handing him a note. "Just 
read that, and tell me what you think of it. There surely 
is some mystery in Nettie's life. I have felt all winter 
that there was something she was keeping back from me. 
She is gone, Mark; gone without a word, — only that." 

"CJone!" He stood before her dazed — overwhelmed. 

"Yes, read that." 

He took it to the window and stood with his back to the 
room. The note shook in his hand as he read the pitiful 
appeal to be allowed to go unsought. 

"My dear Mrs. Parsons: 

"You have been good to me every moment. How can I 
ever make you know how I love you and how grateful I 
am, when I must do this? Mrs. Parsons, I cannot stay 
here — and I cannot tell you why — and I cannot tell you 
where I am going — I dare not even trust myself to see you 

"I can only tell you this: I have a great sorrow in my 
life that I am not able to speak of. It is very terrible and 
forces me to hide myself, even from you. You are so 
beautiful and good. You will trust me. I am not to blame 
for this, and some day I may be able to see you again, but 
not now. Forgive me, and do not try to find me ; for some- 
time, when I am strong enough, I will come to you myself 
and tell you about it. I am leaving now, and will send 


for my things. I beg you — I beg you do not search for 
"I shall love you always, every moment of my life. 

" Joyful Antoinette Heathehby." 

"When did she leave?" asked Mark, hoarsely, turning 
to his aunt. 

"This morning, before any one was about. I did not 
know of it until after you went, and a man came for her 
things, the maid says, while I was out." 

Mark began to draw on his coat, which he had thrown 
aside as he entered, and seized his hat. "I will find her,'' 
he said. 

"Wait, Mark. Have luncheon first," said his aunt. 
And as he knew it was best, he did so. 

"I don't even know where she lived before she came to 
Boston," mourned Mrs. Parsons. " She has been so reticent 
about herself in that way, and yet she has talked a great 
deal about her home, too, and her childhood. She must 
have been a very happy child. She may have gone there, 
Mark, if only I knew where it is." 

Mark's eyes brightened. He would go there first 
Perhaps Nathanael and Elizabeth had returned. Surely 
they could help him. Hence it was with some degree of 
hope that he kissed his aunt good-bye. 

Late that night he arrived in Woodbury Center, tramp- 
ing across from the station as he had that first time two 
years before. Spring was full upon them in the country. 
The smell of newly plowed fields was pleasant, and his 
heart boimded with hope as he strode in the darkness 
through the little town. He saw a light in the Drews' 


window as he passed, and he went in at the gate and peered 
through like an alien. Yes, they were there. He saw 
Elizabeth's beautiful hair shine in the light of the lamp 
above her head. He saw Nathanael stand with his arm 
about her, laughing, and Mrs. Drew in her invalid's chair, 
quiet and happy ; but he saw no Joyful, and he turned 
away. He could not break in on that happy group with his 
trouble. They would but just have arrived, for he saw an 
unopened trunk on the little porch, so he took his way sadly 
to the Somers' boarding house as of old. There, as of old, 
also, he heard the cream of the village gossip, but of Joyful 
not a word. It was as if for them she had never existed. 
The large-nosed young man still came and sat the evening 
through and listened to Jane Somers playing the piano, but 
she was still Jane Somers, a little thinner and slightly more 
pungent, Mark thought. 

The next morning Mark started for the cove, but this time 
he did not even pause at the Drews'. He had no heart 
just now to see any one to whom he must be civil, until the 
cry of his heart had been heard. A certain peace came over 
him as he entered the wagon way through the old woods. 
There was the spot where he first spied her, sacred to him, 
and filled with her presence. He gathered some star 
flowered grasses that grew where she had stood, and walked 
on with them in his hand. A bluebird fluted its note over 
his head, and he heard a woodman's ax in the distance. 

There was the spot where he had nearly met his death, 
and a little farther on was the narrow footpath he had taken 
that noontime when he had finished his morning's painting 
of Undine under the old beech tree. He took the path 
again, and his heart beat high. It seeemed to him that he 


was being guided by an unseen power, as if he were moving 
forward under an hypnotic spell, and he hastened his steps 
— he almost ran. At last — at last he must find her. 
She was there. He saw her in the distance, sitting as 
before, but this time she was absorbed in no book, only in 
her own thoughts, and the branches of the trees were bare, 
and the sunlight streamed warmly over her. 

He stood still a moment, and then moved nearer, nearer. 
She heard him, and, starting from her dream, rose and came 
a step toward him, with the old look he remembered, of 
April sun in eyes that had wept; but as suddenly she 
turned her face from him, and held out both hands as if 
to ward him off. 

"No, no," she cried. "Go back, go back. You must 
not come here." 

But he came on and took the warding hands in his and 
held them. "I must come to you. Joyful, I must. You 
can't hide from me any more, darling; you cannot." 

She writhed and twisted her hands free, and confronted 
him. "How dare you I" she said, with trembling, white 

Mark feared she would fall as she had before, and he 
placed his arm about her and led her, too weak to resist, 
to the seat, and stood beside her. "Listen to me, Joyful," 
he said, at last controlling his emotion. "I must talk to 
you a little while, and then, after you have heard me 
through, if you have anything to condemn me for, I will go. 
Look at me, Joj^ul, look in my eyes." She fixed her eyes 
on his face with the same gaze he had so often felt search- 
ing into his very soul, and he took the seat beside her. 
"Tell me," he said, — "be true with yourself, and be true 


with me. Tell me if you see any evil in me. Forget what 
any one may have said to you, and say truly, before God, 
if you can think my heart is black." 

"Oh, no, Mr. Thorn, I can't. That is why I dared not 
see you," she said, with a long-drawn sigh, as of one who 
had fought to the end of his strength. "I can't, Mr. 
Thorn; why did you come here?" 

"Because I love you, and I must come here. Every 
hour, every moment since I saw you last, you have been in 
my heart. I have searched for you. I went to Eiu-ope, 
thinking I was following you, only to learn too late that I 
was leaving you behind. Dearest one, why can't you trust 

"That is it. That is the terrible thing. How can you 
ask me, when you know ? Once I trusted you. Once you 
seemed like a god to me. I was glad whenever I thought 
about you, I never thought whether you loved me or not, 
it was that you seemed so great and good. Everything 
you said was like a beautiful story, full of delight to me — 
and then — and — then — I learned such terrible things 
of you, of how you had the power to hide your real self, and 
— can you think how terrible it is ? Can you ? I learned 
you were no true knight, such as I had dreamed you were, 
and my heart died in me, for the world is terrible — I 
learned what you knew all the time, and did not care any- 
thing about, how people crush each other, and let each 
other suffer from day to day imder their hands. They 
forget what they are, they never seem to think what they 
might be, and just go on and live for such strange things. 
They seem to live as if they were only bodies, and forget 
there is anything besides. They don't seem even to know 


how to be really happy, and yet they laugh a great deal. 
All the time I have longed so for this sweet place. It has 
seemed the only safe place in all the earth, and now, when 
I have come back to it, you — " she stopped speaking, and 
leaned toward him a long moment, with parted lips and 
heightened color, still gazing in his eyes, which glowed on 
hers through tears. Suddenly she placed her two hands 
on his breast and her face drew nearer his. 

"Mr. Thorn," she said in a low voice, "I do not believe 
it, I cannot. You are true, you are good. You could not 
sit here and look at me like that, with such wickedness in 
your heart — I know it — I feel it here — in your heart I 
feel it, and in mine." 

Then he caught her to his breast, and she rested there, 
sobbing. It was over — the sorrow and the fear. The 
delicious moment came to him for which he could have 
given his life, the reward of his waiting love. She climg to 
him. She would not lift her head nor look in his eyes 
again, and when he tried to tell her all and explain away 
her doubts, she would not listen to him. 

"I can't have you tell me. I would rather trust you 
without being told. It is sweet to be able to trust in this 
way, just as we trust God. He does n't tell us everything, 
only leads us, and we find things come right." 

"Joyful," Mark said in wonder, "why did you change so 
suddenly, before I had a chance to make even one little 

She tossed back the hair he had disheveled and looked 
at him through tear-dimmed lashes. "Because all at once 
it seemed as if your soul was crying out to mine and telling 
me the truth. All at once, Mark, as if we were both made 


of glass and could see each other's truth through the 
windows of our eyes. I felt my distrust of you was a shame 
in me, and yet, how could I do otherwise, when — when — 
there was so much — " again she hid her face from his, 
where he loved to have it hidden — where he had so longed 
to hold her — where he felt she belonged. 

"Tell me all about it. Joyful, from the very beginning." 

So she told him all the story of those two years, beginning 
with the hour when he had foimd her, and she had poured 
out her heart to him in her terrible need. 

"And why did you leave my aunt ? Why did n't you give 
me a chance there to speak for myself?" 

"Because of something in myself. I could not hate you 
— I had tried. I did not dream you really loved me; how 
could I ? And even if I had, I would still have feared you, 
for something within me kept drawing me to think of you ; 
and when I was alone, or in the dark, I seemed to feel 
you near me, as you were that time you foimd me and helped 
me. I thought I was wicked not to be able to hate you — 
but I could not." 

"I thank God for it," he said. Ah, the sweet confession ! 
What more could he ask for his two years of anxious wait- 
ing? He lifted her face to his. "Don't say anymore, 
sweet — all the terrible past is ended, and heaven is opened 
for you and me." 

Popular Gipyright Books 


A«k your Jeoler for » conpUu liot of 
A. L. Burt Compaay*' Popular Copyr^Iit Fictioii. 

Abnar Danlal. By WIU N. Hwben. 

Advontura* of A Modatt Man. By Robert W. Chamber*. 

Adventuraa of Qarard. By A. Conan Doyle. 

Advanturea of Sherlock Holmaa. By A. Conan Doyle. 
Allia Pass. By Robert W. Chambera. 
Alternative, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. 

Ancient Law, The. By Eilen Glasgow. 

Angel of F^orglvenaae, Ths. By Koaa N. Carey. 

Argel of Pain, The. By B. F. Benson. 

Annala of Ann, The. By Kate Trumble Shajber. 

Anna the Adventure*!. By iS. Phlllipa Oppenhelm. 

Ann Boyd. By Will N. Harben. 

Ab the Sparka P'ly Upward,, By Cyru» Townsend Brad; 

At the Age of Eve. By Kate Trimbie Sharber. 

"* "•- "' "^■'- By Augusta Evans Wilson. 

oorings. By Ri 

.ling of Rr 

Barrier, Th 

Awakening of Helen Richie, The. By Margaret Delajid. 

r 20. By Clarence E. Mulford. 
r-SO Day*. By ClartncB E. Multird. 
ttle Oroufld, The. By Ellen Glaagow. 
au Brocade. By Baroncsa Orczy. 
echy. By Bettina von Hut ten. 
.._ gj, j{o,,grt Hlohen- 

Belh Norvell. 

By Harold 

_ — i, The. By Irfjuls Joseph Vanc^. 

Butterfly Man, The. By George Barr MeCutoheon. 

By Right of Puroha»e.. By Harold Blndloas. 

Cab No. 44. By R. F. Foster. 

Calling of Dan Matthewi, The. By Harold Bell 'nMsllt. 

Call of the Blood, The. By Robert Hlohens. 

Capo Cod Storlei. By Joseph G. Lincoln. 

Cap'n ErI, By Joseph G. Ltncoln. 

Captain Warran'a Ward*. By Joseph C. Uncoln. 

Caravaner*. The. By the author of "Elizabeth and Her Qermaii 

Cardigan, By Robprt W. Chamherp. 

Carlton Ca»e. The. By Eaierv H. CJark. 

Cur of Deatlny, The. By C. N. and A. M. WIlllamBoa. 

Carpet From Baadad. The, By Harold MacGrath. 

Ca*h Intrigue, Tha. By George Randolph Chester. 

Caating Away of Mr*. Lack* and Mr*. AJeahlne. Frank S. Stockttm 

Caatl* by the Saa, The. By H. B. Marrlot Wataon. 

Challonera, The. By E. F. Benson, 

Chaperon, Tha. By C. N. and A. H. Wllllanisen. 

City of Six, The. By C. I.. Canll«ld. 

Popular Copyright Books 


A«k your Jealsr tor « complete Mat of 
A. L. Bnrt Coa^any'a Popular Copyriglit Fiction. 

Clrci«, Th«. Bjr Katbertne Ceoil Tburaton (autbor ot "The Mas- 

ijuerader," 'The Oambler.") 
Colonial Free Lance, A. By Chauiict'y C. JluichkiB*. 
Conqusit ot Canaan, Tne. By Booth TBtklnytun. 
CjIxplrMors, Tde. By itoberl W. Chambers. 
Cynthia of tht Minute. By Louia JoHepb Vajice. 
Dan Marrlthisw. Jly Lawrence Perry 
Day of the Dog. The. By U«orge Barr McCuteheon. 
Dapot Maeicr. r»a. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
Oorallcta. liy William J. Locke. 
Olamond Master, The. By JacquBS Futrello. 
Olamonda cm Paite. hy Agnes and Egenou Cnatla. 
DIvlna Fire, The. By May Sinclair. 
Dixie Hart. l:.y Will N, Harben. 
Or. David, liy MatJJrie Benton Cooke. 
Early Blrd^ The. By Uvurge Kan.lolph Cheater. 

Elizabeth In ftiif^en. 1 1 ' - 1 i ,.ii,:i.ii' ur "i^ii^^abcth and Her Qerman 

Garden- , 
Eluilve laabel. By Jacques Futrelle. 
eiualve Pimpernel, The. By Baroneea Orciy. 
Enchanted Hat, The. By Harold McQrath. 
Excuaa Ma. By Rupert Hughes. 
M-40 or Fight. By Emerson Hough. 
Flghtlnfl CRance, The. By Robert W. Chambera. 
Flamited Quarrlei. By Mary E. Waller. 
Flying Mereupy, The, By Eleanor M. Ingram. 
For a Maiden Brave. By Chauncey C. Hotchklsa. 
Four Million, The. By O, Henry. 
Four Pool'i Myitery. The. By Jean Webster. 
Fruitful Vine, The. By Robert Hlchena. 
Qanton A Co. By Arthur J. Eddy. 
Gentleman of France, A. By Stanley Weyman. 
Gentleman, The. By Alfred Olllvant, 

Qet-Rlck-Qulck-Wallinaford. By Qeorge Randolph Chester. 
Qllbert Neal. By Will N. Harben. 
Olrl and the Bill, The. By Bannister Merwin. 
Qlrl from Hla Town, The. By Made Van Vorst. 
Olrl Who Won, The. By Beth Ellis. 
Glory of Clementina, The. By William J. Locke. 
Qlory of the Conouered, The. By Susan OlEupelL 
God't Qood Man. By Marie Corelli. 
Going Some. By Rex Beach. 
Golden Web, The. By Anthony Partridge. 
Green Patch, The. By Bettlna von Huften. 
Happy Island (sequel to "Uncle William). By Jennette Lee. 
Haarts and tha Highway. By Cyrus Townaend Brady. 
Held for Orders. By Frank H. Spearman. 
Hidden Water. By Dajie Coolldge. 
Hlfhway of Fate, The. By Rosa N. Carey. 
Homeiteaders, The. By Kate and Vlri^ll D. Boyles. 
Honor of the Big Snows, The. By JameB Oliver Curwood. 
Hopalono Caastdy. By Clarence R, Mulford. 
Household of Peter, The. By Roaa N. Carey, 
Houie of Mystery. The. Bv Will Irwin. 
House of the Lost Court, The. By C. N. Williamson. 
House of tha Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katherlne Oreen. 

Popular Copyright Books 


Aak your aealer n>r a complete liat of 
Ad L. Burt Company s Popular Copyngnt Fiction. 

Houu on Charry Straet, Th*. By Amelia E. Barr. 

How Letlls Loved. By Ahoa Waraer. 

Huibanda of Edith, Tha. By Qeorge Barr McCutcheon. 

Idol*. By William J. LACke. 

Illuatrroui Prince, Tha. By E, PhllllpH Oppenhetm. 

imprudence of Prue, The. By Sophie FlBlier. 

inez. (UIuBtrated Edition.) By Augusta J. Evans. 

Infallca. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 

Initial* Only. By Anna Katharine Green. 

In Defiance of tiia King. By Chauncey C. Hotchklss. 

Indlfferencs of Juilat, Tha. By Orace B. Richmond. 

In the Sarvlca of the Princeae. By Henry C. Kowtond. 

Iron Woman, Tha. By Marearet Deland. 

Ishmael. <I]!UBtTated.ji By Mrs. Southworth. 

laland of Reoeneration, The. By Cyrus Townsead Brady. 

Jacic SpuriocV Prodlgai. By Horace Ixirlmer. 

Jane Cable. By George Barr McCutcheon . 

Jaanna of tha Minhe*. By E. Phlillpa Oppenhelm. 

Jude tha Obioure. By Thomas Hardy. 

Keith ot the Border. By Randall PajTlsh. 

Key to the Unknown, Tha. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Klnodom of Earth, Tha. By Anthony Partridge. 

King Spruce. By Holraan Day. 

Ladder of Swords, A, By Gilbert Parker. 

L»dy Betty Across the Water. By C, N. and A. M. WlUlamaon. 

Lady Mertan, Colonist. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward. 

Lady of Big Shanty, The. By Berkeley F. Bmlth. 

LangfDPd of the Three Bars. By Kate and Virgil D, Boylea. 

Land of Long Ago. The. By Eliaa Calvert Hall. 

Lane That Had No Turning, The. By Gilbert Parker. 

Last Trail, The. By Zane Grpy. 

Last Vnyage of the Donna isabei, The. By Randall 

Leavenworth Case, The. By Anna Katharine Greei.. 

Lin McLean. By Owen Wiater. 

Little Brown Jug at Klldare, The. By Meredith Nicholson. 

Lojaded Dir-.p. Kv VUf-tv tr mD>-Lr.k 

y C. N. and A- M. WUllamBoa. 

,. ,,_rthwi>jif. Ru Hn.-n — " 

By Rob._. , 
aassadOP, The, „, „. . ,. 

ier Fire. By Randall Par 

Miss Anne, The. By S. R. Crocket' 

_By_ Robert _W. Chamber 
aid of t 

f Old New York, , 

_ .J. The. By Robert W. Chambers." 
rig of Bobby Burnl_L The. By George Randolph Cheater. 

Outside, The. By Wyndham Martyn. 
In the Brown Derby, The. By WeliB Hastings, 
lags a la n^ode. By Mrs. Hnmphrev Ward. 
lags of Theodora. Yhe. By Molly felliott Seawell. 
lage Under the Terror, A. By Patricia Wentworth, 
sr Mummer. The. Bv tc Phillips Oopenhelm, 
(y Harold BitWIosa. 

Popular Gjpyright Books 


Aik your dealer xor ■ complete lut ox 
A, L. Sort Con^sny'f Popular CopyngBt FtctiaD, 

Max, By Katherine Cecil Thurston. 

Memoirs of Sherlock Holmei. By A. Conan Doyle. 

Mlllionairo Baby, The. By Anna Katharine Green. 

Mtss/oner, The, By iC. PhlUlus Oppenhelm. 

M;»b SoUna Lue. fiy Maria ThomuBon Daviess. 

MIeireo of Brae Farm, The. By Roaa N. Carey. 

Money Moon, The. By Jetfery Farnol. 

Motor MaftJ, The. By C. N. and A. M. WUilamaon. 

Much ABo About Peter. By Jean Webater. 

Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. 1-incoln. 

My Brother'! Keepei". By CliarleB Tentiy Jacitson. 

My Friend tha Chauffeur. By C — --' • '• "•" 

Nly Lady Caprice (author ot the 

My Lady of Doubt, By Randall Par 

My Lady ot the North. By Handall Parriah. 
My Lady ot the South. By Handal! Parrlsli. 
Mystery Talei. By Edgar ""- "— 

Officer 666. By Barton W, Currle and Augustln HcHiish. 

One Braver Thing. By Itichard Dehan. 

Order No. 11. By Caroline Abbot Stanley. 

Orphan, The. By Clarence B. Mulford. 

Out ot the Primitive. By Robert Amea 

Pam. By Bettlna von Hutten. 

Pam Decide*. By Bettlna von Hutten. 

Pardnera, By Rei Beach. 

Partnera of the Tide. By Joaeph C. Ui 

PansoB Perilous, The. By Roaa N. Ct 

Paaaera By. "- ■ ' — 

Paternoster F 

Paul Anthony. Christian, IRv Hiram w. naya. 
Phillip Steele. Bv .T"tit"' riiiv-r i^iirwood. 
Phra tha Phoenician, i:., ,:.:v.iri i...ster Arnold. 
PIUndM-ar, Th«. By Boy Norton. 
Pole Baker. Bj- Will N. Harben. 
PPllUclan, The. By Edith HunCinKton Haaon. 
Polly of the Clrcu*. By Margaret Mayo. 
Pool of Flams, Tha. By Louis Joseh Vance- 
Poppy.. By Cynthia Stookley. 

Power and the Glory, The. By Qraes McGomn Oooke. 
Price of the Prafrfe, The. By Margaret HJll MoCarter. 
Prince of Slnnen, A. By B. Phlllla Oppenbelm. 
Prince or Chauffeur. By Lawrenoe Perry. 
Prlnceu Dehra, The. By John Reed Scott. 
Prlnceas Passea. The. By C. N. and A. M. WllUamson. 
Princeaa Virginia, The. By C. N. and A. M. 'VniliamBon 
Prlsonara of Chance. By Bandall Farrlsh. 
Prodigal Son. The. By Hall Calne. 
Purple Parasol, The. By Oeorga BaiT MeCvtcheon. 

Popular Copyright Books 


Ask your dealer ior a complete list of 
A. L. Burt Company • Popular Copyr^bt Ficdon. 

Reconstructed Marriage, A. By Amelia Barr. 

Redemption of Kenneth Gait, The. By Will N. Harben. 

Red House on Rowan Street. By Roman Doubleday. 

Red Mouse, The. By William Hamilton Osborne. 

Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond. 

Refugees, The. By A. Conan Doyle. 

Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner. 

Road to Providence, The. By Maria Thompson Daviess. 

Romance of a Plain Man, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 

Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. 

Rose of Old Harpeth, The. By Maria Thompson Daviesa. 

Rose of the World. By Agnes and Egerton Castle. 

Round the Corner In Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond. 

Routledge Rides Alone. By Will Livingston Comfort. 

Running Fight, The. By Wm. Hamilton Osborne. 

Seats of the Mighty, The. By Gilbert Parker. 

Septimus. By William J. Locke. 

Set In Sliver. By C. N. and A. M. Williamson. 

SeMli- Raised. (Illustrated.) By Mrs. South worth. 

Shepherd of the Hills. The. By Harold Bell Wright. 

Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. 

Sidney Carteret, Rancher. By Harold Bindloss. 

Simon the Jester. By William J. Locke. 

Silver Blade, The. By Charles E. Walk. 

Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach. 

Sir Nigel. By A. Conan Doyle. 

Sir Richard Calmady. By Lucas Malet. 

Skyman, The. By Henry Ketchell Webster. 

Slim Princess, The. By George Ade. 

Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 

Spirit In Prison, A. Hy Robert Hichens. 

Spirit of the Border, The. By Zane Grey. 

Spirit Trail, The. By Kate and Virgil D. Boylea. 

Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. 

Stanton Wins. By Eleanor M. Ingram. 

St. Elmo. (Illustrated Edition.) By Augusta J. ShraiUk 

Stolen Singer, The. By Martha Bellinger. 

Stooping Lady, The. By Maurice Hewlett. 

Stery of the Outlaw, The. By Emerson Hough. 

Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond. 

Strawberry Handkerchief, The. By Amelia E. Barr. 

Sunnyside of the Hill, The. By Rosa N. Carey. 

Sunset Trail, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. 

Popular G)pyright Books 


Aflk your dealer for a complete list of 
A. L. Burt Company*^ Popular Copyngbt Fietion. 

Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop. By Anne Warner. 
Sword of the Old Frontier, A. By Randall Parrish. 
^Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. 
Tennessee Shad, The. By Owen Johnson. 
Tess of the D'Uia>ery||les. By Thomas Hardy. 
Texican, The. By Dane Coolidge. 
That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright. 
Three Brothers, The. By Eden Phillpotts. 
Throwback, The. By Alfred Henry Lewis. 
Thurston of Orchard Valley. By Harold Bindloss. 
Title Market, The. By Emily Post. 
Tom Sails. A Tale of a Welsh Village." By Allen Ralnew 
Trail of the Axe, The. By Rldgwell Cullum. 
Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli. 
Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles Alden Seltzer. 
Two Van revels. The. By Booth Tarkington. 
Uncle William. By Jennette Lee. 
Up from Slavery. By Booker T. Washington. 
Vanity Box, The. By C. N. Williamson. 
Vashtl. By Augusta Evans Wilson. 
Varmint, The. By Owen Johnson. 
Vigilante Girl, A. By Jerome Hart. 
Village of Vagabonds, A. By F. Berkeley Smith. 
Vision Ing, The. By Susan Glaspell. 
Voice of the People, The. By Ellen Glasgow. 
Wanted— A Chaperon. By Paul Leicester Ford. 
Wanted: A Matchmaker. By Paul Leicester Ford. 
Watchers of the Plains, The. Rldgwell Cullum. 
Wayfarers, The. By Mary Stewart Cutting. 
Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough. 
Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker. 
When Wilderness Was King. By Randall Parrish. 
Where the Trail Divides. By Will Llllibridge. 
White Sister, The. By Marion Crawford. 

Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rhinehart. \ 

Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright. 
With Juliet In England. By Grace S. Richmond. 
Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. 
Woman In Question, The. By John Reed Scott. 
Woman in the Alcove, The. By Anna Katharine Green. 
Yellow Circle, The. By Charles E. Walk. 
Yellow Letter, The. By WllMam Johnston. 
Younger Set, The. By Robert W. Chambers.